


After the click of the shutting

by aesc, pearl_o



Series: Tough little baby telepath [3]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Anal Sex, Anger, Angst, Barebacking, Blow Jobs, Come Marking, Control Issues, Cooking, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dirty Talk, Facials, Fingerfucking, Friendship, Frottage, M/M, Mention of Child Abuse, Mother-Son Relationship, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Rimming, Shower Sex, Size Kink, Telepathy, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-29
Updated: 2013-04-29
Packaged: 2017-12-09 23:13:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 96,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/779060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aesc/pseuds/aesc, https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearl_o/pseuds/pearl_o
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik and Charles try to navigate their new relationship, while dealing with a new case that hits much too close to home, the reappearance of some ghosts from their pasts, and Erik's own slowly crumbling boundaries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter one: Monday

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is, the unbelievably, ridiculously long third installment of the TLBT series. Please do heed the tags, as well as the special note on Chapter Seven regarding potentially triggering content.
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who has cheered both of us on as the series has developed. We hope you enjoy this fic as much as the previous two ♥ ♥ ♥

Charles isn't next to him when Erik wakes, although Erik has the definite sense of his now-departed mental presence, curled warm and close, still sleepy at – Erik blinks until the display on his phone resolves – just before six. At least he's here, Erik tells himself, although maybe, probably, trying to make his escape without waking Erik.

Erik sighs, pushing resignation away in favor of focusing on the apartment. Its layout is still strange to him, the patterns of the metal framing under the sheetrock and the plumbing an unfamiliar maze. His awareness wanders through it as he reorients himself to wakefulness, around the short hallway into the living room and – Erik stops, awareness arrested by the clang of cheap metal pans against a burner and steel coils heating up inside Charles's battered electric kettle.

 _I know you don't believe in tea_ , comes Charles's silent voice, sounding so extraordinarily put-upon Erik has to smile to himself, _so I'm trying my best to make that sludge you call coffee. Since you're determined to drive all the way across town this morning._

In truth, Erik's sorely tempted to stay here all day, keep Charles in bed with him and ignore the world. Charles sends him a flicker of interest and agreement, and a few images that have Erik hissing and clenching the rumpled sheets to keep his hand off his cock. The picture of Charles riding him, strong, slender thighs flexing as he fucks himself on Erik's cock, only reminds him that he'd sucked Charles off last night, reminds him what it's like looking up at Charles when he's flushed and incoherent, given over to pleasure.

 _You do need to get ready to go, darling_ , Charles says, with a definite air of someone impatiently – and evilly – tapping a wristwatch. _That is, if you want to be on time._

"I don't want to be on time," Erik growls. But he _has_ to be, after three days off, with the Mayfair case needing attention as it makes its way to court and Moira waiting with yet another folder and – _Moira_.

He has to tell her today, about the two of them.

He frowns up at the ceiling. It's not a conversation he's looking forward to, but he was aware of the department's fraternization policies well before he and Charles ever laid a hand on each other. He'd dug out his employee guidebook a few weeks ago, in fact, to go over the rules, part of him hoping that he'd discover that any relationship _was_ forbidden, and maybe that excuse would be enough to finally get those thoughts about Charles out of his head. 

_You okay?_ Charles says, a little timidly, and Erik realizes that Charles isn't looking in closely enough to see why Erik's thoughts have turned serious, just enough to know the playful mood has left. He tries to project a careful burst of reassurance Charles's way as he forces himself out of bed and begins to get dressed. _Sorry, just ... thinking._

Charles is still standing over the stove when Erik reaches the kitchen, smiling and singing some faint tune under his breath. Erik has the immediate urge to come and stand behind him, wrap his arms around Charles's waist and tuck his chin over Charles's shoulder to watch him work; he files it away in the back of his mind, and carefully steps around Charles to get to the coffee. It's just as well he takes it black, because there's no sugar or cream to be had in Charles's apartment. He leans back against the counter, and as soon as it's cool enough that he think he won't completely burn his tongue, he swallows the coffee in three heavy gulps, barely tasting the shitty quality. 

That should be enough to get him back to his apartment. He can shower there, get dressed, make himself another cup – a decent cup – and then head to work. Over Charles’s shoulder, he sees the glass jar of instant coffee crystals, can’t help the burst of fondness at the thought Charles buying that specifically for him.

He reaches out and touches Charles's forearm, causing Charles to turn his head, aiming a satisfied smile in Erik's direction. "I'll see you in a little while, okay?"

"Okay," Charles says, easily enough, but he shifts his arm, wrapping his fingers around Erik's wrist and tugging him in close. Erik follows, bending down to kiss him, soft and hungry, until he gathers up enough will to pull himself away again. 

"I have to go," he says. He can hear the apologetic tone in his own voice, unfamiliar to his ears. He wonders, a little concerned, just how much Charles would have to push to get him to give in – but luckily, he doesn't have to find out, because Charles just says okay again, touching his lower lip thoughtfully as he turns his attention back to his oatmeal.

It takes effort, a lot of it, not to tilt Charles's face back up to his again and kiss that mouth and nip it right where Charles's finger was resting. Charles knows, of course, judging from the way his mouth is tilting now, wicked and sly and entirely too self-assured. Erik retaliates by shoving gently at Charles's head, more a forceful tousling of Charles's still-unbrushed hair than anything else, and muttering _tease_ just loud enough for Charles to hear.

"I know," Charles says sweetly. "Now go on."

Some of Charles's attention goes with him, as Erik jogs down the stairs and heads to his car. It's a sensation Erik's grown used to—one that, in his unguarded moments, he likes – a faint, cat-quiet presence, or a hand resting gently on the surface of a pool without disturbing what lies beneath it. Erik figures Charles could read his mind from across the city, that Charles could do anything he likes, and remembers that one moment last night when Charles had simply taken information from Erik's head as if Erik had spoken it out loud.

He finds that kind of power appealing, likes the thought of Charles growing into it. The way he'd dropped Mayfair a few days ago still sends a charge through Erik's blood: Charles's pale, grimly determined face, his gaze fixed on Mayfair's still form as if to make sure Mayfair stayed down, where Charles put him. Erik had almost forgotten about the bullet he'd frozen in midair, rocked by the sudden knowledge that Mayfair hadn't had a convenient heart attack, but that _Charles had done this_ , had reached out with his mind and tugged on something vital and instinctual, and Mayfair had collapsed.

Not, Erik figures as he finally slouches into his apartment and stumbles his way into the shower, that Moira will much care that Charles can take care of himself, that there's almost no power on earth capable of compelling Charles to do anything he doesn't want. He can imagine her reaction – shock, disgust, disappointment. What she'll do about it, he has no idea. The sudden spray of hot water in his face doesn't offer much clarity, so Erik pushes his worries away, down into the deep place where he puts things he can't think about.

He feels refreshed as he steps out of the shower. Back in his own space, everything is familiar and easy, exactly as he always has it. He shaves, picks out a fresh suit, fills up his travel mug with his own _good_ coffee, grabs a banana to eat on the way over, and he's out again and on his way, as quick as that. The only unusual thought that breaks its way to the surface of his mind is when he wonders how he can convince Charles that they should spend more time here, at Erik's place, instead of at his apartment, and how offended Charles will be if Erik brings it up. He's still considering it as he locks the door behind him and heads down the stairs.

Traffic isn't nearly as bad as it could be, and he's only running about ten minutes late when he pulls into work. The place is bustling when he walks in, already crowded with detectives and officers getting started on their days. But the first place his eyes go is, of course, to Charles, who's sitting in a chair next to Erik's desk, staring down at a crossword puzzle, a pencil hanging out of his mouth. 

_You can't find anything better to do?_ Erik says. _Aren't you supposed to be making yourself useful?_

The corners of Charles's mouth turn up into a slight smile, though he doesn't look up at Erik. _Hard to without a partner. At least I was here on time._

He makes his way across the room slowly. Munroe calls his name as he passes by her desk – the only desk with a plant on it, a flourishing tropical-looking fern – and he stops.

Ororo Munroe's the only one of his coworkers, aside from Moira and Logan on certain days, whom Erik can not only stand but actually likes. She's a few years younger than him, just made detective about a year ago; she works hard, get results, and she doesn't hide her mutation. Erik’s seen her use her ability, weather control, to interesting and startling effect when chasing down suspects. She's cut her hair again, Erik notices, so it's cropped short and spiky, close to her scalp; some of the more irritating humans had thought she’d dyed it, cloud-white hair next to her dark skin. Fortunately for them, Munroe has almost as little time for their stupidity as Erik does.

"MacTaggert's looking for you," she says.

"Huh," Erik says. He takes a sip of his coffee. "Any idea what for?"

"None," Munroe says. She's obviously busy, so Erik just nods at her and walks on to his desk, where Charles is waiting.

He has messages, some from the ADA about Mayfair, a cryptic one from a friend at the parole board that Erik saves after hesitating over the callback button. He's half-tempted to call Bobby regardless, but Moira is looming in that way she has, making her presence felt without breathing down your neck. How she manages it, being short, slight, and pretty as she is, is one of the unsolved mysteries in the Homicide division.

Moira greets him with a casual, "Enjoy your break?" as she slides back behind her desk. Erik sits down in the chair furthest from the door, angles it so it allows him to see out into the open office on the other side of the wall even as he directs most of his attention to Moira. Charles is at the edge of his vision, an insubstantial blur; the weight of his watch on his wrist and his presence at the outskirts of Erik's mind, have more solidity to them.

"I did," Erik says after a moment.

"You must have," Moira says dryly. "Since usually you're back in the office within twenty-four hours and this time I didn't see or hear anything from you after you and Charles left together. _And_ , on top of that, you walk in here ten minutes late when you beat me in every other day."

"Well, as you can see, Charles didn't murder me," Erik says with a dryness that is partly due to the sudden flicker of _how the hell did she figure it out?_ He directs a silent question to Charles, whose attention has sharpened, expanding to press more insistently against Erik's thoughts. Charles sends him _no, no I didn't_ , along with a bit of suspicious hurt, that Erik would think he'd overstep. Now that he's looking – now that he's fucking acting like the detective he's supposed to be – he sees that Moira's desk is empty in front of her, no file waiting in its usual place for her to give it to him. The collection of folders by her elbow doesn't belong to new cases.

"If you needed longer, I would have given it to you," Moira says into a silence that's rapidly grown awkward – and, to Erik, damning. He consciously keeps his body still, the relief at her words locked down and ignored in favor of processing the moment. "I'm sure I could find something else to do with Charles."

"There is something I wanted to talk to you about," Erik tells her, "if we're simply here to chat and not get any work done."

Moira visibly hesitates, which is far enough out of character for her that it only adds to Erik's rapidly growing sense that something is not right. "There's something I'd like to discuss with you, too," Moira says, "but go ahead."

Erik folds his hands together carefully in his lap. He keeps his gaze steady and his tone even as he says, "I need to officially notify you that Charles and I are involved in a romantic relationship."

There's the shock he was expecting, flashing through her eyes, though she tamps it down quickly enough, only sitting back slightly in her chair as if dodging a blow. She purses her mouth together tightly and taps her fingers against the desk as she processes. "How long?" she says for a moment.

"Not long," Erik says. "Just these last few days."

Moira is silent again for a few moments, still clicking her fingernails in a steady rhythm. Finally she says, "Officially, as I'm sure you're aware, there's no rule against this. Neither of you is in a supervisory capacity over the other. Unofficially..." She pauses. "I'm saying this as your friend, Erik, not your boss, but – we've both seen the kind of guy in his mid-thirties who hangs out with teenagers, and I didn't think you were that guy."

There are a million things Erik could say to this, starting with the plain fact that Charles isn't at all the kid she thinks he is, but he's doubtful any response he could give would affect her opinion. And then there's the fact that she should _know_ him, have the kind of faith in him he thinks he's earned. Too, he's a little thrown by her claiming herself as his friend; he doesn't think of himself as having friends, though when he thinks it over, he supposes she does fit every category he assumes a friend to fit into: someone he talks to, trusts, hangs around even when it's not strictly required. 

He straightens his posture a little and says, "I’m not that guy. What was the other thing you wanted to discuss?"

"Erik, I really don't think we're through with – "

"We are through." Erik offers her his flattest expression, watches her try to ride it out. When Moira starts up again, saying, "He's _nineteen_ ," Erik interrupts with "If all you're going to do is state the obvious, then can I have another case to work on?"

Moira frowns at him, and he recognizes that set to her jaw. She won't be moved, not before she says what she wants to say, regardless of how much Erik tries to intimidate her. "I know he's legally an adult, but Erik... the second whatever you two have – if it's just – if it's sex or _whatever_ – if it starts to interfere with your work, or if it starts to harm him – especially if it starts to harm him – I _will_ discontinue your partnership." She draws a breath. "I should now, but you two solved Siobhan Durham's murder in a month after it gathered dust for eight years. I don't want to break that up, but I will if I have to. And I won't think twice about it."

"Understood," Erik says. He knows enough not to make promises like _it'll never happen_ , and he also knows enough to know Moira will follow through on her promise no matter what it costs her.

Charles hovers at the edge of the conversation, listening invisibly. _Should I talk to her?_ he asks once Moira falls silent again, rubbing at her head as if to prod away a headache.

 _She'll probably want to give you the third degree later_ , Erik replies, _whether you want to talk to her or not._

"Well," Moira sighs. She leans under her desk to rummage for a moment, reappears with a bottle of painkillers and a thermos of water. "That was... not what I was planning on hearing first thing on a Monday morning." She swallows the pills and the water and whatever she thinks about Erik and Charles. When she looks at him again, she's unflappable Moira. Sometimes Erik's a bit surprised when he can't sense steel in her bones when he reaches out to her. "Now," Moira says, "what I wanted to discuss with you was..."

She's touching a folder, battered and blandly beige, thick. It's stamped with the Parole Division logo. Erik stares at it like staring at a serpent, waiting for it to strike. He's seen a thousand of those, but he knows this one intimately, the folds at the corners, a stain from someone careless with their coffee. He knows the meaning of the three letters stickered to the tab on the front, _S-H-A_.

"Erik, I heard from Bobby... Shaw's parole hearing was moved up. It's next week, not next month, now."

Erik shuts his eyes, inhaling deeply and counting to five before he lets it out again. It's the only thing he can allow himself to think about, the breathing and counting. He repeats the process twice before he opens his eyes again to meet Moira's concerned gaze.

"Erik, if you need to take a little more time-"

"I'm fine," he snaps. He doesn't need her being solicitous, he doesn't need anything except to get the hell out of here. "I've already submitted my statement to the board; there's nothing else for me to do. Now, if you don't mind, I'd really like to get back to work."

Charles brushes something wordless and soft across Erik's mind and Erik pushes back, a little more harshly than he means to, _Not now. Give me a few minutes to myself._ There's a flash of confusion, and maybe hurt, from Charles before he withdraws, and that's something _else_ Erik is going to have to deal with later, talking Charles back down and explaining why that wasn't a rejection. Goddammit. Erik bites the inside of his cheek in frustration.

There's not enough metal in Moira's office, and he knows better than to mess with any of her things, anyway, but all the same he wishes for something to tear apart, something he can be violent with. He can't change the things around him, but his powers he has total control over, and through them total control over any metal he can find. There's a box of paperclips at his desk, some loose nails he keeps in a drawer just for occasions like this. 

"Okay," Moira says, still watching him with that same wariness. "Why don't you go out and get some fresh air, maybe have a cigarette or something? I need a minute to talk with Charles, anyway."

Erik glares at her. "Fine."

He hates the knowledge that she's coddling him, treating him like a volatile thing that needs careful handling so it doesn't blow up in her face. That she's right only makes it worse – that he _is_ volatile, that he does need to get out of here before he detonates. His lungs ache for a cigarette, now that she mentions it, but the metal in his desk will be more satisfying; he's already felt out the nails and washers in their plastic container.

"Out," Moira breathes, jerking her chin to indicate her door. "Send Charles in before you go destroy things."

It means having to talk to Charles, and there's no way the fury churning through him is going to let him bridle it enough to force it to the back of his mind where it can't do Charles any harm. Erik is pretty sure whatever he tries to send telepathically will come across like shrapnel; however angry he is, he can't draw Charles into his crossfire.

Fortunately – unfortunately, he doesn't know – Charles is already up and away from his desk, striding towards Erik. Towards Moira's door, of course, since their paths must inevitably cross. Charles doesn't look at him, face set, like maybe he's about to tell Moira not to worry about it – it was just sex, it's over, it was nothing. And however angry he is, however much he wants to break and _destroy_ , he can't let Charles be a casualty of this. _Another casualty of Shaw_ , he thinks, and some of the fury cools, thinking involuntarily of Shaw's delight in taking away Erik's life without murdering him, of what Shaw would have made of Charles at the age he'd met Erik.

Erik catches Charles's wrist gently. It still makes Charles tense, his body starting away from Erik's, his mind readying itself to strike before Charles recognizes _Erik_ and understands the reason behind the touch. Erik runs a quick finger up the inside of Charles's wrist, against soft, delicate skin and smiles down at Charles's wary eyes.

"We're okay," he murmurs, soft enough that no one but Charles can possibly hear him.

Charles's eyes dart across his face briefly, and then he nods, once, and Erik lets him go. The relief that trickles through him isn't relief at Charles's acceptance so much as it is relief at having one less thing to worry about with him.

He grabs the box from his desk and heads outside, to the crummy little smoking area tucked out and away from everything. There's no one else there, which makes at least one thing this morning that's going Erik's way. He takes out a cigarette and lights it, smoking slowly while he opens up the container and lets his pieces of metal float into the air, forming a wide circle a few feet in front of him. He focuses all his concentration on them. First just moving them, rotating in place, spinning large patterns between them, more and more layers of complexity until it's taking all of his attention to keep them going. When he can't stand it anymore, he tears them apart, pulling them into smaller and smaller bits, until they're barely even visible to the eye, but he can still feel them, every single piece. 

By the time he's finished his second cigarette, he's calm enough to forge all the metal back together, fusing it into a mass about the size of a baseball, which he pulls over to set in his palm. He clenches his fist around it, appreciating the solidity, the firmness, the immutability of the sphere. 

It's been twenty years, the perfect smoothness of the sphere seems to say. Erik is a grown man, not a child, and Shaw has no control over his life anymore. He has no power over Erik. _Nobody_ does, unless Erik decides to give it to them.

When he heads back in, Charles is still in the office with Moira – Erik can't read Moira's face, and he can't see Charles's, so he doesn't know how it's going. He sits back at his desk and starts putting away his things. Peace has just started to reestablish itself, tentative, when a long stretch of bare female leg inserts itself into his view.

Emma Frost is sitting on the edge of his desk, smirking at him. Or perhaps it's not _at_ him; Erik's rarely seen her without a smirk, so there's no reason to assume it's personal, rather than just her default expression. 

Erik is fairly certain that every terrible thing he assumed of Charles, back in the beginning, is actually true of Emma.

Like Charles, to say Emma has money would be to grossly understate the matter. Erik's seen what Frost Corp. stock trades for, and the company's name mentioned in the quarterly profit reports in the business section. He's also seen Xavier Biodynamics, consistently at the forefront of _profitable_ medical and scientific research. Both Charles and Emma come from money and stand to make even more. Both Charles and Emma are telepaths. They have blue eyes that look at you like they've figured out everything about you.

"Sugar." Emma's voice curls around him like smoke. "Was that you giving me a rage headache just now?"

"I hope so," Erik mutters. He pointedly begins to search through the files on his desk, looking for the paperwork for Mayfair's arraignment, just to see it and make sure everything went smoothly. Emma makes an amused noise, her arrogance drifting down onto him like her perfume.

Unlike Charles, Emma is statuesque and beautiful in the way marble or ice sculptures are beautiful. Everything about her is flawlessly manicured and polished. She wears her wealth in her slightly too-high Dior skirt and the subtle fragrance not even the afterlife of Erik's cigarettes can block out. Erik strongly suspects she does this – works as a telepathic consultant – because she _is_ bored, because somehow the business world isn't depraved and bloody enough. He wonders what Logan, her partner, thinks about her.

"Oh, Logan's come 'round," Emma says with a short laugh. Emma also reads minds and isn't shy about it, where Charles – at least with people he knows and trusts – will wait for permission for anything beyond surface thoughts. Thinking about it, Erik realizes he'd needed three weeks for Charles to stop making a show of reading his mind, just to needle Erik.

Involuntarily, he glances back up at Moira's office. Charles is talking, although Erik can't hear his voice, turning his head to follow Moira as she gets up to fetch something from her file cabinet. His hair looks like he gave half a thought to brushing it before he left – probably why he beat Erik in this morning – and his face has the animation Erik's learned means he's deep in some convoluted explanation that only makes sense to him now but that he's confident you, too, can understand. He's not close enough to see, but he imagines Charles's eyes are bright, a flush high on his cheeks, something Erik had only started noticing once Charles had stopped being a bored rich kid and became the possibility of something else.

"He's a sweet kid, isn't he?" Emma says knowingly.

Erik grunts, turning his attention back to his desk. "Is there something you want, Emma?"

"Isn't the pleasure of your company enough?" Emma's voice is utterly dry. She isn't any fonder of Erik than he is of her, but it seems that the promise of aggravating him is worth whatever distaste she might feel in being around him. 

He gives her a flat look, and she shrugs. "Call it curiosity, then. You're distracting this morning – your mind's been all over the place."

"There is nothing in my mind that's any of your business," Erik says. At least she's smart enough not to mention Shaw to his face. When it becomes clear she's not going to leave without him making her, he mentally adds a particularly insulting name.

Emma rolls her eyes. "Well, if you're not going to be any fun..."

She stands up again to head back to wherever she came from. Erik ignores her and returns his concentration to the file in front of him. He skims over the carefully worded account of the arrest, which doesn't do justice, not at all, to what Charles did, to what Charles is capable of – it's only been three days, but already that memory is one that Erik's taken out again and again, like a photograph worn and creased around the edges, of Charles pale and serious and powerful.

His mind makes the leap from there, without any permission from him: Charles on his awful couch, looking up at Erik through those impossibly blue eyes, while his goddamn _mouth_ took Erik's cock farther and farther in, affection and lust swelling around him, in him – 

"Oh, _my_ ," Emma murmurs.

He locks the memory down, fast, his fury rising up to drown it, but the damage has been done. Emma's smirking down at him – at least until he gets to his feet – her eyes glittering with superiority and _knowing_ , as if she'd stood by his shoulder and looked down at Charles, been part of one of the most private memories Erik's kept for himself. 

"Well, that _is_ interesting," Emma drawls. "I wouldn't have figured you as a cradle-robber, Lehnsherr. What, is he an old soul?" Her voice goes sing-song with mockery, chiming as cold as the diamond she can become.

Already on edge from Shaw as he is, Erik doesn't entirely trust himself not to do something violent. He's damned, though, if he'll beg Emma to keep quiet. The metal of his desk rattles painfully, his power sinking its claws into the panels and bolts and the scraps of nails and paperclips he's just put back. _Emma_ , he thinks, with enough viciousness that she half-flickers into diamond, _if you even think –_

Before he can finish his threat, Charles is stalking out of Moira's office, Moira hovering in her doorway, clearly annoyed. Charles bristles with anger and with concentration, the searing-hot focus of him filling up the space of the office, wrapping close around Erik as if catching him in an embrace. Charles's mind is a series of low, furious whispers, distracted concern lacing over him like fingers through his hair, _protective_ , Erik realizes with a start.

The office goes on about its business around them; only Moira seems to notice anything amiss. Charles's doing, Erik thinks, a flash of gratitude weaving through his own anger; he doesn't want whatever the hell is happening here to become fodder for the eternally-grinding gossip mill that is the station house. Emma has gone from diamond translucency to flesh, although she's decidedly paler, her gaze fixed unwillingly – if still contemptuously – on Charles, who stares right back, his body corded with tension and a simmering, ferocious resolve. He's a far cry from the timid, uncertain boy Erik had found on his couch two mornings ago.

"Honestly, Charles, I have to say, I'm _sure_ you could do better – "

"Shut it," Charles says, ice cold and furious. 

Emma smirks, still looking faintly amused, but Erik suspects that she is at least partly putting it on, to show she's not intimidated. She should be: a tiny part of Erik might find it cute, Charles snarling like an angry kitten, but it's drowned out by the vast majority of him, which can see how dangerous Charles is like this, crackling with power.

 _You will stay the fuck out of Erik's head_ , Charles says, _and you will keep this to yourself, do you understand?_

Whatever Emma's mental response is, she doesn't choose to let Erik hear it, but he can see the way her lip curls, disdainful but also vexed, and he can hear Charles's response. 

_Because I said so, and we both know I'm stronger than you._

Emma huffs out a breath, shaking her head, and a small amount of the tension in the air breaks. "It's not as though I care," Emma says with a flip of her hair, retreating like an injured animal to lick her wounds and pretend she never intended to fight at all, "but you're both fools if you don't think word is going to get around, and quickly."

Even after she's walked away, Charles stands still, glaring after her, his body rigid. Something about seeing how angry Charles is has caused Erik's own rage to subside; he sets a careful hand on Charles's arm and Charles turns his head, blinking at Erik as if surprised to see him. Charles's own anger dissipates like fog under the sun, although he still bristles when he turns to glare at Emma again.

"I'm sorry about that," Charles sighs.

"What are you sorry for? It was my mistake," Erik says. "I know enough to control my thoughts around her." He's never had a problem with it before, either; it's always been easy for Erik, sorting out his thoughts, keeping the things that need to be private under wraps, only letting things out when it's a time he can deal with them. It's a little worrisome, really, that he let work and home collide like that, confusing the two Charleses into one.

"She has _no right_ ," Charles says, voice low. "She doesn't even _care_ – it's like a game to her."

"That's Emma," Erik tells him. Around them the office falls into its usual patterns again, people moving too close so they can eavesdrop. Charles frowns, losing a bit of his fire and a bit of the stiffness in his shoulders, a wordless brush of anxious reassurance accompanying a sigh, _please-I-won't-do-that-to-you-ever-swear-it_.

 _I know_. Erik's suddenly too tired for conviction, but he hopes some of it gets through.

 _She won't try it again_. Charles glances in the direction of Emma and Logan's desk; when Emma meets his gaze, it's with a smirk and ironic dip of her head before she returns her attention to Logan. _She cares more about her own appearance than making us the department's next hot item. That, and she knows what I'll do to her if she tries to mess with you again._

Erik isn't entirely sure he likes being on the receiving end of protection, however dazzling it is to watch Charles's power display itself, like a lion's claws out of their sheaths. He pushes the dislike aside before Charles can register it and focuses on getting down to business. Their relationship, the weekend, go into their places, locked away for now with the promise to himself that he'll talk to Charles about what Moira said to him, the procedures of acquainting himself with a new case coming forward.

"I don't suppose Moira gave you actual work for us to do, or did she just want to stage an intervention?" he asks.

Charles gives him a reproving look. _She's your captain, Erik, for god's sake_ , but he nods all the same. "It's the new folder in the corner of your desk; she had someone put it there while you were outside." _I – I want – I won't look, but I want to know._ Erik sighs; he has confessions of his own to make to Charles. Later. "It's thirteen years cold now, a double murder: William and Sophie Lockwood, found dead in their flat in the Lower East Side." Charles hesitates. "And it was a missing person's case too. Their daughter, Madeline, had gone missing. No one's found her."

"Thirteen years?" God, a _kid_. Erik picks up the file, says as calmly as he can, "Then let's get to work."

After all the ups and downs of this morning (not to mention the last few days), it's a relief to have something to work on, something to bury himself into. The more they investigate the file, the angrier Erik gets, but it's a familiar anger, the sort that calms and centers him. The kid was only a few years old, barely more than a toddler. If she's still alive, she'd be sixteen now, Erik thinks. _If_. Odds are, it's much too late to save her, but that doesn't mean it's too late to find out the truth about what happened to her and her parents.

The case fills up his mind, expanding to take up every spare bit of space, so there's no room anywhere for thoughts of Shaw, of Charles, of anything but this. It's exactly the way Erik likes it. When the end of the day rolls around, he's surprised, taken aback by the passage of time. He's stuck in that bloody apartment, thirteen years ago, and it takes him a minute to adjust back to the here and now, allowing the Lockwoods to slide away.

Charles follows him out to the car, trailing behind, his mind a careful, light presence upon Erik's. 

"Do you want a ride home?" Erik asks as he unlocks his door.

"Yeah," Charles says. He goes around the car, letting himself into the passenger seat. Once they're both seated and buckled in, he says, "I thought – " and then cuts himself off, hesitating.

Erik waits for him to continue.

"I thought," Charles says again, studiedly casual, "that I could pick up a change of clothes and my toothbrush and stuff, and then I could go home with you. If you wanted. I don't have to."

There's something about seeing Charles uncertain that's a little painful. It seems unnatural, somehow, though Erik knows it's equally as real as the arrogant prick he first knew or the unbendable force he saw stand against Emma this afternoon. 

"I might not be the best company tonight," Erik warns him.

Charles smiles crookedly. "When are you ever?"

That startles a laugh out of Erik. He hasn't felt much like laughing all day, between Moira, Emma, and the case and Shaw. He tempers it into a scowl that only turns Charles's smile into something rather more wickedly teasing. Erik rolls his eyes and puts the car in gear, backing out of his parking space to begin the trip to Charles's apartment.

The drive is quiet, Charles keeping a careful silence that Erik is reluctant to break. He's not entirely sure how to explain to Charles that he's no more used to this than Charles is; it'd be embarrassingly long since he'd last had sex if he had decided only to have sex with people he cared about beyond the moment. The last serious relationship he'd had, he hadn't been much older than Charles is, still in college, still confused and fucked-up. He doesn't know how to share space, or he's forgotten how. How much of this Charles is getting from him, Erik has no idea; he can't sense anything from Charles, meaning Charles isn't projecting, but is walled up behind his shields, thinking about this morning or the case or Erik, or all of those three things at once.

He lets the silence ride as he waits for Charles in his double-parked car, watching as Charles bolts up the walk and vanishes inside, a silent _Be just a minute_ accompanied by the sense of hurrying. Erik knows how to handle people; even if he's an asshole, Moira's said, the fact he's an asshole provides a kind of advantage when it comes to getting answers out of recalcitrant people. It doesn't provide an advantage now, when Charles is such a balancing act; he's even more off-balance now, tilting dangerously as the case and Shaw and Charles tug him back and forth.

"Erik?" Charles is back, duffle bag over his shoulder, peering into the car quizzically. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," Erik says more curtly than he means to. He softens his tone, softens his mind so it's not so thorny. "Ready?"

"Yeah." Charles throws his bag into the backseat and settles back into the seat. Erik drives off again, faster than he really needs to, just to appreciate the soothing metal shaking around him. 

When they get to his building, he has to resist the automatic urge to reach back and take Charles's bag, carry it up the stairs himself. He stops himself in time, though, and he's glad of it when he sees the glance Charles gives him out of the corner of his eye.

Erik wonders vaguely if it's always going to be this difficult, if he's always going to feel this need to walk on eggshells around Charles's sensitivities. Even if it is, he tells himself, it will still be worth it. He doesn't try to project that thought to Charles, per se, but he leaves it open and clear, at the top of his thoughts, settling it there for Charles to know, if he needs to. For himself, Charles doesn't acknowledge the thought – for which Erik's grateful – but goes to drop off his bag in the bedroom, moving comfortably through Erik's space.

When they reach his apartment, he heads straight to the kitchen, turning on the oven and grabbing a meal out of the freezer while he waits for it to preheat. It's not, he decides as he contemplates the box of frozen pad Thai, a night for cooking. He grabs a beer from the fridge, too. Charles has seated himself on a stool across the other side of the breakfast bar, and he's watching with approval as Erik uses his ability to snap off the metal bottle cap.

Erik takes a swig of his beer and gives Charles a rueful smile. He can feel himself starting to relax, however slightly, at the sight of Charles sitting so easily and comfortably in his apartment. It's as if something has shifted over in his brain, and he can push some of the demands of the day aside and appreciate what he's kept locked away so tightly while they worked. 

"Hey, you," Charles says softly. "I missed you."

"Missed you, too," Erik says. They've been together almost continuously since last week, and yet he knows exactly what Charles means. He leans over, all the way across the counter, to lay a brief kiss on Charles's lips.

Charles takes the brief kiss and stretches it out, leaning up out of his chair so Erik isn't quite so contorted, sighing and so-conveniently parting his lips so Erik can lick his way inside. There's a startled huff before Charles pulls back and Erik, already dazed and with his blood singing, stares at him in puzzlement until Charles laughs a bit and says, "Beer mouth," and squints and frowns around the taste.

"So sorry to have offended you," Erik says dryly. He turns away to unwrap his dinner and pretends not to notice Charles stealing a sip of beer himself. He realizes that Charles hasn't selected anything for himself, wonders briefly if Charles plans on not eating or – as is more likely – is waiting for the permission he's too proud to ask for outright. Sighing to himself, Erik projects an impatient _I'm not going to keep the oven on all night_ , and that seems to do the trick; Charles slinks around the end of the breakfast bar and, after a wary glance at Erik, opens the freezer to peruse its contents.

As he arranges plates and silverware and orders Charles to get himself something to drink before he dies of dehydration (which earns him silent indignation), he thinks how Charles is like one of those cats from his grandmother's house, at ease and lazy one minute, nervous the next, uncertain of his place. Even though Erik's granted him permission to be here – maybe that's it, Erik decides, arrested by the thought. Permission is contingent; it's not the same as belonging.

"Want to watch TV?" he asks after he's slid their food into the oven and set the timer. "I usually shout at the nightly news; Logan says it's entertaining."

(They'd had dinner together one night during a joint case, at a restaurant that played FOX News on one TV and hockey on the other. Logan had hollered and cursed at the latter, Erik at the former.)

Charles picks up the memory and smiles, that genuine smile that Erik is fairly certain he could become dangerously addicted to seeing. And then, for a miracle, Charles takes his own bottle of beer and, once in the living room, appropriates one corner of the couch – and, once Erik's settled himself on the other end, insinuates himself into Erik's space quite before Erik realizes it, snugged up tight to Erik's side.

It still stuns him, that Charles has turned out to be a cuddler. Maybe it shouldn't be so unexpected, since he knows Charles doesn't really touch people, any more than Erik himself does, and it makes a certain amount of sense that he would be starved for it. And yet it still is a surprise, a pleasant one, to see how much Charles is contained in his _body_ , and not just his mind.

Erik drags his arm out from between them and wraps it around Charles's shoulder, hugging him close. Charles rests his head on Erik's shoulder, taking another swallow of his beer, and Erik lets his hand comb slowly through the thick strands of Charles's hair as they watch TV.

The news hasn't gone far enough for Erik to progress past wordless grumbling at politicians' incompetence and general impatience with the fluff that passes itself off as legitimate journalism before the timer beeps, signaling dinner. Erik untangles himself from Charles with some reluctance to go take care of it. Behind him, he hears Charles sighing when he picks up on Erik thinking about how some people actually use their kitchen table to eat at and not get crumbs and sauce on their couch.

Despite the silent complaining, Charles seats himself on the same stool, the one Erik suspects he is going to come to think of as Charles's, as Erik serves them both. 

"Should we get the heavy stuff out of the way?" Charles says, looking down at his plate as he cuts his food, inhaling appreciatively the steam wafting up.

"Talking about it won't get it out of the way," Erik says. "It's going to stick around no matter what." Still, there's no point in putting the conversation off any longer, Erik knows, and he huffs out a breath as he taps his fork against the edge of his plate in annoyance. "All right. What did Moira say to you?"

Charles swallows the bite of chicken and vegetables in his mouth and wipes his mouth off with a napkin. "Moira," Charles says, with an audible edge in his voice, "was doing her best to walk a very fine line of figuring out if you were taking advantage of me while trying not to imply either that I was an idiot or that you were a sexual predator. Her mental gymnastics were astonishing."

The anger and betrayal hit him hard and he has to look away from Charles, bracing himself against the wave of it. Moira's known him for six years, since before she made captain, since he'd got his start as detective in the department after coming up from Vice. She knows his story, or as much of it as anyone knows who hasn't read about it in the papers; she knows what drives him. And this.... "Did she say that?" he asks. "That I was a – a..."

"No," Charles says quickly. One hand closes tentatively around his – a hand that Erik's clenched into a fist, warping the spoon in his grip. "She doesn't believe it, it's something she can't make herself believe, not really, where it counts. It's not a valid explanation for her."

"But she still thought it," Erik says.

"People think all sorts of things they don't mean," Charles tells him. His fingers circle around Erik's knuckles, over the hard ridges of tendon and bone. "Especially when they're surprised or... or hurt."

Guiltily, Erik thinks of the texts he'd sent after Charles had left and wishes he'd ignored Charles's wishes and deleted them. He shakes his head to dislodge the thought and hopes Charles hadn't seen it, or that he'll write it down to one of those thoughts people don't really mean to think. A quiet sound from Charles, somewhere between sad and amused, tells him Charles has heard it, but he's willing to let it go for now.

"The point is," Charles continues, "it didn't have the feel of something she believes is, or could, be true. She was trying to understand in a way that makes sense to her. Most people try to get incomprehensible things to fit their worldview, not the other way around. Worldviews are very hard to change." He sighs. "She'll need time, I think. I told her I'm keeping my apartment and I'm contributing to groceries if I stay at your place for any length of time," this is said with a finality Erik doesn't dare question, "but really, nothing you or I could tell her will get her to accept us any faster."

Erik nods, acknowledging Charles's words. He had known, intellectually, that Moira would disapprove, and yet – it still stings, having the confirmation of how strong she feels about it. And Erik has never been very good with accepting that there are things he can't change. 

"At any rate, that confrontation is over with," Charles says, as he lets go of Erik's hand again. "And Emma will keep her mouth shut, so... no one else has to know."

He's not looking at Erik as he says this, and Erik cannot entirely read the tone of his voice. "Charles, I – " Erik starts, and then pauses, trying to figure out how to phrase what he wants to say. "I don't think my private life is anybody else's business. But you know, don't you, that's different from wanting to keep this – _you_ – a secret. I'm not ashamed of our relationship."

Charles is biting his lower lip, gnawing it between his teeth in the way that always makes Erik want to stop him, soothe the worried flesh with his own tongue or thumb. He doesn't quite meet Erik's eyes as he says, "I don't want to be the reason people think badly of you. I don't want to be the thing that ruins your reputation."

Erik shakes his head. "You won't be." _Even if you did, I wouldn't care._

"Yes, you would," Charles says, answering the thought and not the speech. "But it's also... right now it's just ours, and if more people know, it's like it becomes partly theirs, too, and I don't want that. I want you to myself." He turns his gaze back to Erik's, finally, pleading in a way Charles almost never is with him. "Does that make sense?"

"Yeah," Erik says quietly. "It does." 

Charles gives him a very faint smile and turns back to picking at his plate, twisting the sesame noodles around his fork. He's not asking about the other thing they have to discuss, though Erik can feel the very light weight of his curiosity; he's waiting for Erik to volunteer, to be ready to share. 

It's the least Erik can do, he supposes. It's not as though he hasn't already told Charles the worst of it. 

"You remember what I – when we were talking the other night?" Charles gives him a look that isn't quite as sarcastic as it could be. Of course he remembers; it's not a conversation either of them are going to forget for a while. "The man who killed my mother, Sebastian Shaw."

The memories well up like magma through the cracks in the case he stores them in, hot and choking. For a moment he can't trust himself to speak or do anything that isn't stare at the distance beyond the wall and sink his power into all the metal he can find and hold on. Charles says something, _you don't have to tell me_ , but Erik has to tell him. Charles is going to be living with it for the next week at least.

"He's up for parole again next week," he says roughly. The words taste bitter, metallic on his tongue like blood. "This is his second time since he became eligible. The last time I've given my statement against his parole, but..." He hasn't let himself think much about this today. "It's been nineteen years. He pled guilty to second-degree murder to get out of a life sentence. I read the notes from the district attorney, and they didn't think they had enough evidence to prosecute him for what he actually _did_." When he'd gotten older and learned to read between the lines, he'd worked out that the city had been more interested in not confronting the still-raging _mutant problem_ , swayed by Shaw's attorneys into not facing a protracted trial and media circus. Distantly, he notices the tines of his fork have fused together.

"Twenty years of a twenty-five year sentence is long," he continues, hearing his words for the dispassionate things they aren't. He speaks the way he'd speak to a victim hearing her assailant is out on the streets again. "Mutants stay incarcerated longer than the average – ten percent longer, typically, but even longer if the mutant has a physical mutation or is black or Hispanic." The numbers haven't changed since his caseworker recited them to him years ago. "If he were human, he'd be out by now."

"And you're afraid," Charles says softly, absently, as if he's looking into Erik's head, but Erik can't feel him there. Maybe he just understands what it's like to know the thing you fear is the one thing you can't stop.

"I got letters from him after he went to prison," Erik says. "I don't know how he did it. I read the first one, and it was – obscene. He didn't mention the murder at all, he just wrote like he was – a friendly uncle, or a coach, or something. How he still believed in my potential, and hoped I was still working hard on improving myself." Erik shakes his head. "I used to daydream about killing him, Charles. Every day. I thought of so many different ways."

Charles sounds sorrowful and far away as he says, "Darling..."

"The thought of him as a free man – in _my_ city, walking the streets as though he has any right, as if he's somehow paid for what he did – " He's done something to the fork, but Erik doesn't look down to see what it was. "I don't know what I'll do."

Charles is silent, and after a moment Erik forces his eyes away from the wall, and back down to his plate, at the fork twisted into a knot and splintered in parts. He fixes his damaged silverware and then begins to eat, almost robotically, until his dinner is gone. He doesn't really taste it. When he rises to clear the dishes, though, Charles stops him.

"I can do it," he says, pulling the plate out of Erik's hands.

Erik frowns at him, but lets him take it. "Remember to rinse them off before you load them into the dishwasher," he reminds Charles, and seeing the way Charles barely restrains himself from rolling his eyes cracks something open in Erik's chest, letting him breathe a little easier. 

He sits back on the couch and turns the TV back on; the news has ended, some loud and gaudy game show having taken its place. Erik watches it without taking very much of it in at all, until Charles comes to take the remote out of his hand, turning the set off before climbing carefully into Erik's lap.

"Charles, what are you – " Charles's finger against his lips, and then Charles's mouth on his, puts an end to the question. He's close and warm, his thighs bracketing Erik's, the weight of him balanced neatly atop Erik's thighs. Erik can't help but give way to the kiss, eyes slipping shut as Charles strokes his thumbs along Erik's cheeks and cups his face with hands that are improbably strong.

 _Is this okay?_ Charles asks, his mental voice touched with a hesitation the confidence of his kissing hides.

Erik isn't above willing to be distracted, even though the day – Shaw, Moira, Emma, the case – has wrung him out and he's not sure how much energy he has left for what Charles has in mind. Still, for answer, he unbuttons Charles's collar, breaking away from their kiss to nip at the warm hollow between his clavicles. Charles sighs, an exhalation Erik can feel as the breath escapes his chest, a vibration in the long, tempting column of Charles's throat. It's awkward to go much lower with Charles's t-shirt in the way so he contents himself with kissing and nuzzling at Charles's neck, because he's learned by now that Charles likes the scratch of his end-of-day stubble, likes the sharp tickle and abrasiveness of it, how it leaves his skin sore and tingling after Erik's finished.

Charles himself is busy, hands up under Erik's shirt to run across his sides and abdomen, pushing the fabric higher until it's rucked up under Erik's arms. _I can't do this for you, love_ , Charles sends, the words dry and a bit teasing but with affection running through them like clear water. Erik has no idea if Charles is sharing that freely, or if he can't disguise what he's feeling when he's sending like this, but it stuns him all the same.

Once he has his shirt and Charles has both his oxford and t-shirt tangled on the floor at their feet, sleek, strong muscle rubbing up against him, he tries to turn them so he's on top, so he can do something more other than squeeze and stroke at Charles's ass and touch the shivering skin of his belly while Charles grinds lazily against him. But Charles shakes his head, body tensing in resistance until Erik goes still, and he uses his body to urge Erik back into the cushions, his hot coaxing breath to reduce Erik to shivering compliance as he whispers _let me take care of you, this once, please_ into Erik's ear.

Erik lets himself relax, sinking back into a slouch and gazing up at Charles through half-shut eyes. Charles breathes out softly, smiling down at Erik as he moves. Erik rests his hands on Charles's strong, solid thighs, feeling the muscles tense under his touch as Charles raises himself up and down, small and slow and steady, teasing both Erik and himself when his clothed ass rubs over Erik's crotch.

Charles uses Erik's shoulders to brace himself as he starts to move more urgently, his breath coming more quickly. Erik is only half-hard, but he can already feel Charles's erection, stiff through his trousers, pressing rigid against Erik's belly. 

"Come on, baby," Erik says softly. "Let me see your cock."

Charles shudders as he slows his movements to a stop. He raises himself up on his knees, causing Erik to immediately miss the weight, the pressure of his body. Charles scrabbles, a little awkwardly, at his trousers, unbuttoning and unzipping like he’s angry at the fabric for existing, and then he's pulling out his dick, hard and red and already damp with precome.

"Beautiful," Erik says, looking down between them. Charles makes a low noise and then surges forward, catching Erik in a kiss as he starts to rock again in his lap, every movement he makes either pushing his tight, round ass against Erik's cock or letting his pretty dick paint slick against Erik's abdomen. 

_This is perfect_ , Erik thinks, _you're so perfect, you're everything I want_. He doesn't know, doesn't understand why Charles is here with him; he doesn't think he'll ever understand it, when Charles could have, could do, so much more, but Erik is a pragmatist above all, and he's not going to waste time wondering instead of taking what he can while Charles is still here.

"How many times?" Charles says, between nipping on Erik's lower lip.

"What?" Erik says, feeling lost.

He can't restrain himself from beginning to thrust up, harsher and harder than the rhythm Charles has been setting, and Charles chokes on a gasp as he tries to speak again. "How many times," Charles manages, "did you get off, thinking of me?"

"I don't...."

"You don't know?" Charles murmurs, the words catching as he groans when the head of his cock brushes against the hair on Erik's belly. "Or you don't want to tell me?"

 _Too many times_ , Erik thinks. He's not really seeing anything, the bare slope of Charles's shoulder registering as something unreal, like the halo from the ceiling lights blurring in his hair and the strangely prominent freckles on his nose. He remembers, suddenly, viscerally, how he would push all _those_ thoughts of Charles away while they worked the case, but they would lie in wait for him and for unguarded moments, when he'd got back to his apartment and he'd be showering or in bed and he would think of something Charles had said or done.

 _I thought of the times you'd mouthed off to me_ , Erik tells him. One time Charles had, in front of Logan and Emma and Moira, told him he was wrong, red mouth curving around the two words _you're wrong_ as if by enunciating them Charles could impress them in Erik's brain. Erik had taken that vivid red curve to bed with him, imagined it was Charles's hot, disobedient mouth gliding wetly over his cock instead of his own fist.

Other times, thinking of Charles's ass in those jeans and out of them, thinking about doing him up against his kitchen counter, in bed, in one of the interrogation rooms. Charles vibrant and eager, his body curving under Erik or above him, the parts of him hidden by his clothes colored in by Erik's imagination. And always, always, running underneath those fantasies, _this is safe, this is fine, this will never happen._

"Safety's overrated," Charles says breathlessly, clasping his knees even tighter against Erik's body. _It's okay, I want this, I want you..._ He rests his forehead against Erik's, closing his eyes. They're not kissing, but their mouths are close enough that it feels like they're sharing the same air between them, a constant loop. Erik's fingers are twitching against Charles's thighs with how much he wants to touch.

"Let me get you off."

Charles's eyes are still closed as he shakes his head, stubbornness radiating out. _No, you first,_ he insists, and Erik has to huff out a laugh.

"Maybe that's what I need to get me there," he says, straining forward until his mouth is even with Charles's ear. "Maybe that's what's going to do it for me, seeing you splatter me with your hot come. What do you think, Charles? Can you do that for me?"

"Stop it," Charles groans. He's rocking in Erik's lap, almost bouncing, and it's all Erik can do just to keep a hold of him as he writhes so fervently, so prettily. 

"Please, baby," Erik says, scratching his nails hard against the fabric of Charles's pants, the firm muscle beneath. "Just give me what I need."

 _You're such a bastard!_ Charles says, and the noise he's making out loud is partially a moan and partially a laugh as he reaches between them, grabbing his cock just as it begins to jerk and spill messily all over Erik's bare skin. Erik has to shift his grip, holding onto Charles's waist to keep him steady and not let him fall as he shakes through his orgasm. Charles's mind also shakes and shivers, blissfully blank as Charles comes apart, filled with nothing but how much Erik loves this and how much Charles loves giving Erik something he's never given anyone else.

Charles's ass shifting against him is nearly enough to bring him off – but not quite enough, keeping him balanced at the knife-edge, whispering low, broken, filthy things to the damp skin behind Charles's ear, how hot and perfect he is, how good his come feels hot and slick on Erik's belly. With a moan Charles gets a hand between them and runs his fingers through the mess he's made of Erik's stomach, brings wet fingertips to his mouth and stares Erik right in the eye as he licks himself up and rocks his ass hard against Erik's dick.

"Fuck, Charles," and he _does_ come, in his pants, hard enough that his vision goes and he's knocked breathless by the force of it. Charles rides him through it, kissing him with a mouth that tastes like sweat and spunk, and Erik sobs and gasps and gathers him close, muttering words he can't quite understand about he feels, how good Charles is. They're plastered together, Charles's chest and belly and cock flat up against Erik, his arms braced on either side of Erik's head, Erik's hands sunk like anchors into Charles's hips. Erik's come is seeping stickily through his boxers and against his skin, his cock sore where it's been trapped under his trousers.

"I don't think I've seen you this undone before," Charles says, sated and satisfied with himself, licking his lips like the proverbial cat. Erik thinks something highly inappropriate about cream and Charles snorts. _But really, darling, your good trousers... how will you explain that to your dry cleaner?_

"I'll tell her I was set upon by an evil monster," Erik says, and kisses the _who, me?_ expression off Charles's face.

 _We should get ready for bed_ , Charles offers after they've traded lazy kisses and touches for a while, and the incoherence of afterglow has worn off. Erik's thighs have started to go a little numb, for all that Charles is still a pleasantly warm weight atop him. As if cued by the discomfort, his thoughts take an anxious turn, spinning out into the future, touched with the same abrupt uncertainty Erik is starting to learn strikes him when things are too good. _There's so much to do with the case tomorrow..._

"Good idea," Erik says, although he's not particularly inclined to move, and strokes idly down Charles's side.

"We should," Charles says, more firmly, and after a final kiss, scraping his cheek against Erik's stubble, he lifts himself off Erik's lap and gets to his feet. He pulls on Erik's hand, and Erik stands, too, with a light grumble. 

Erik heads to the bathroom while Charles fetches his duffle bag. He strips down, folding his come-stained clothes to put aside, and uses a damp washcloth to wipe off the mess that covers him from chest to groin. When he enters the bedroom, Charles is already under the covers, lying on his back. Erik joins him in the bed, shifting to the position they've learned they fit together, his arm spread to wrap around Charles, Charles's body curled up against his chest. Their legs tangle; Charles's feet are as cold as always, though his flannel sleep pants are soft and warm where they rub against Erik's skin.

 _Good night,_ Charles says.

 _Good night, Charles_ , Erik replies, and he switches off the lights.

* * *

He has the dream again that night. _The_ dream, the worst of all of them, the one that wakes him up, hoarse and sweaty and shaking, alone in the middle of the night. It's been years since the last time he had it, but of course it would return tonight. The chest where it's been locked away has been dug up from the depths again, forced open by this news about Shaw.

It starts as it always does: his algebra homework, his mother preparing chicken at the counter. And it ends as it always does: his mother bleeding, the room awash in red, his own hands dripping with it.

The difference between this time and all the others, though, is that this time he's not alone in his bed. The calls of his name, repeating more and more urgently, are new, and when he follows them to their source he finds himself awake, staring up in the dark into Charles's worried eyes.

"Are you..." Charles coughs. "I know you're not all right, but I... I didn't mean to look. And," a pause while Charles looks away, as if searching for words, "you were in pain."

"Fuck." The sweat is already settling clammy on the back of his neck and on his chest, a match to the cold knot of fear in his belly. He should have told Charles just to stay at his own place; he should have known this would happen. However much Charles has seen in his head already, however much Charles has seen in his own life, some things he doesn't need to see. That nightmare – with Shaw dying and coming to life, over and over, grinning at Erik through a mask of his mother's blood – is something no one needs to have visited on them.

"I'm sorry," he says. "It's... my mind isn't a pretty place." His voice is rough as if from screaming, although he know it's only sleep and the last clench of panic loosening.

Charles is holding himself carefully apart, not touching him. Some of that is probably him remembering what had happened the first night they'd slept together – guilt mixes in with the fear, nauseating, thinking he'd almost hurt Charles despite the promises he'd made to himself – but also... "I know – I know a bit about your dreams," Charles confesses, following the line of Erik's thought although he speaks the words out loud. "The morning when I – I ran, you'd been dreaming. But I didn't want to tell you."

Erik has nothing to say to that, at least, nothing his nightmare-rattled mind can generate. He doesn't like the thought of Charles seeing those things in his head, but whether he likes it or not, Charles will see them sooner or later. It's not fear of Charles's telepathy but fear of his own weakness, anger that Shaw could taint even this, one of few things Erik's wanted only for himself.

 _If you want, I could..._ Charles gestures at his temple, the universal sign for something to do with telepathy. _I won't make you forget anything, but I could... I could help you sleep._ Erik has the sense that Charles had edited himself, to spare Erik's ego.

He doesn't want Charles to be part of this at all, but Charles is tangled up in it either way, now. If Erik refuses, it just means that if he has another nightmare, that will affect Charles as well, that panic and pain of his subconscious mind defiling Charles's thoughts.

"All right," Erik says after a short pause. "Go ahead."

Charles shifts closer on the bed, until their bodies are touching. "Close your eyes," he whispers, and Erik does so, strangely tranquil. Charles's fingertips brush, cool and light against Erik's temple, and in his head, Erik hears _Go to sleep, darling_ , a command he cannot think of disobeying.


	2. Chapter two: Tuesday

The morning is better. Whatever trick Charles used, it worked, and Erik wakes up without the weight of dreams or nightmares clinging to him.

Charles is still mostly asleep when Erik gets up to shower, though he's awake enough to give a teasing suggestion that they should shower together instead, to save water. He's fully under again by the time Erik has finished and returned to the bedroom to dress. Erik stands at the foot of the bed for a moment, watching the way Charles has almost fully buried his head in the pile of pillows, and then he grabs the bedspread and sheets and pulls them off Charles in one smooth motion, leaving Charles lying uncovered in the middle of the bed.

"Wake up."

"Bugger off," Charles grumbles. He makes a rude gesture in Erik's direction, and Erik grins. 

"I'm leaving in fifteen minutes. If you're not ready by then, you can find your own way to work."

Charles groans, and Erik leaves him to head for the coffee machine.

After another silent minute, Erik at last hears Charles shuffling around the bedroom, a thin storm cloud of sleepy irritation drifting down the hallway. Erik grins at the thought and makes sure to think it loudly enough for Charles to overhear. Sure enough, it wins him a _go to hell_ and a sense of deep affront, like an offended cat stalking off, as Charles gets into the shower.

Charles emerges ten minutes later, eyes half-shut even if he's damp-haired and dressed, his duffle bag over his shoulder. He glares balefully at Erik, as if personally blaming him for the phenomenon of mornings, before transferring his attention to the kitchen.

"Are you always this cheerful in the morning?" Erik asks.

"Always." Charles pulls a travel mug from its cabinet – Erik hadn't told him where they were; maybe he's simply picking up unconscious thoughts again, his half-awake state leaving his mind unbarriered. Instead of going for the kettle, Charles pours the rest of the coffee into his mug and adds a cavity-inducing amount of sugar.

Erik thinks back over the few nights they'd spent together. In all of them – all three, now four – Charles had been up before him, making breakfast or tea, getting started on his day while Erik slept. He frowns and watches as Charles tracks down the lid for the travel mug, fumbles to get it screwed on properly.

"What you did last night," Erik says carefully, "to help me sleep. That didn't wear you out? Didn't do anything to you?"

"Of course not." Charles favors Erik with a glower that combines both somnolence and annoyance.

"Hmm," Erik says, keeping his voice neutral. Remembering what Charles had looked like after taking care of Mayfair, Erik tucks away his concern to think about more closely another time. He's fairly certain this is something Charles won't appreciate 

"Are we going or not?" Charles clutches the mug between his hands tightly, as if he's afraid someone is going to try and take it away – and that he's willing to fight them for it if they did. 

_Adorable_ , Erik thinks loudly, and he's pleased by the way Charles bares his teeth at him in response.

The drive to the station is quiet. Erik works through the framework they've begun to construct on the case, beginning to form the outline of how they're going to attack it today, and beside him Charles slowly goes through the process of becoming a functional being. By the time they arrive, he's very nearly his normal self.

"I think you're right that we should start with the ex-babysitter," Charles tells him as they're getting out of the car. "I don't understand why the police dropped him as a suspect in the first place."

He's gesticulating widely, even as he has to hop a little to keep up with Erik as they walk to the doors.

"They weren't getting anywhere with him," Erik says, "so once the neighbor came forward with her description, the stranger angle seemed like a better bet." The initial detective on the case had pegged the babysitter as the squirrely type, nervous, but the description that the neighbor had given them, of a stocky dark-skinned man in a hooded sweatshirt, had turned attention elsewhere.

Charles says, "Yes, but _clearly_ there's prejudice at play; plenty of people think _dark-skinned_ has to equal _suspicious_ – " before he stops dead, just as they reach the entrance of the building.

Erik pauses with his hand on the door's handle and looks back at Charles. His face has drained of color, and he looks vaguely nauseated, unsteady on his feet.

"Charles?" Erik asks.

Charles rubs at his temple and says in a thick voice, "My mother's here."

"Your – " Erik guides Charles out of the way of officers and staff coming up the walk and over to a bench that's mostly dry. Charles drops onto it and nearly loses his travel mug; Erik uses his abilities to levitate it, saving it from spilling its contents across the sidewalk. He doesn't let go of Charles's arm, and that Charles doesn't object to the obvious demonstration of _taking care_ worries him more than Erik wants to say.

Charles's mother is on that list of people Erik doesn't trust himself around, although he's never met her and he's never planned to meet her, aside from fantasies of telling her how brilliant her son is, how fortunate Erik is to have him. At first, from Charles's silence about her, Erik had figured she'd been the kind of old-style socialite who married for money and had a kid for appearances and for someone to give all her money to, who'd given Charles everything he wanted because that's what that sort of parent does. Now he knows it's something far worse, that she'd feared and maybe even hated her son, who'd sensed every iota of her repulsion. And then she had looked the other way while his father – now safely dead – experimented on him and built his empire on his own child's gifts.

Even though Charles hates it, he's allowed Erik his anger about what had been done to him. That he isn't silently admonishing Erik now, telling him it's _all in the past_ , that he isn't objecting to Erik sitting close and rubbing the tense stretch of his shoulders, says he's too overcome to protest the kind of care he takes for a sign that Erik thinks he's weak.

"Why's she here?" Erik asks, striving to keep himself brisk and business-like. If they know why she's here, they can avoid her.

_She's not... she's sad, but sad that she isn't more sad than she is._ Charles in distress falls back on telepathy. In the moment, surrounded by people taking a moment out of their morning rush to gawk at the two of them sharing a too-small bench on the walkway, Erik's grateful for it.

_Kurt Marko_ , Charles adds after another attenuated moment, in which his attention seems reluctantly fascinated elsewhere. _My stepfather... he's dead. He's dead._

Erik's known that Charles has (had? Erik so often thinks of Charles's family in the past tense) a stepfather – he had checked up on Charles as soon as they started working together, and it had come up immediately. There's a stepbrother in the picture somewhere, too. Charles has never mentioned either of them; Erik knows from experience that's not an indication they're unimportant, even if Charles's uncharacteristic lack of composure right now doesn't make it obvious.

"Charles," Erik says. He waits for Charles to turn his (strained, _lost_ ) face to his. Quietly, Erik says, "I need you to tell me what you want to do. What you want me to do."

Charles blinks at him. After another long pause, he says, _I want to get to work. Just like any other day. That's all._

It's the same thing Erik would say in the same situation, and so he doesn't press Charles, doesn't second-guess him or inquire if he might want to take some time to himself after a shock like that. Instead, he helps Charles stand back up. As soon as Charles is upright and steady, he seems to remember to be offended by the assistance, and pushes Erik's hand away. Erik lets it go without a response, and they again make their way to the doors; this time, there's nothing to keep them from entering.

Charles still isn't quite his normal self – he doesn't stop them to smile or flirt or chat with a single one of the people who greets him – but by the time they reach Erik's desk, he's regained most of his color and his standard superior expression, pushed down his distress and shakiness to some place private and hidden.

_Thattaboy,_ Erik thinks ruefully. He sits down, coffee hitting the wood with a solid thud, and he doesn't wait for Charles to join him before he launches into the discussion. "I think you're right we can discount the neighbor. She's old, it was dark, and she didn't remember the guy until much later."

Charles nods eagerly, and Erik gets just the faintest hint of Charles's gratitude and relief like a whisper across his mind before it's gone, as Charles adds his own impressions to the discussion.

They fall into a groove, the good one that they'd established after a few weeks of working together. Charles combs through the initial reports for witnesses, family, friends, coworkers to talk to, people he can scan to assess the veracity of their memories, or to find anything that fell through the cracks. In Charles's endless lectures to him on the subject, Erik's learned that memory is a tricky thing; he knows that witness statements can be garbled or confused, the brain filling gaps with fiction to suit its understanding of reality, but the _mechanics_ of it... he'd been reluctantly intrigued, even as he'd called Charles "Professor" and told him to save the lecture for the classroom.

"We should talk to Madeline's daycare teacher, if we can find her," Charles says absently. His mental voice fills in the gaps for the rationale: _In her first interview, it says she identified six men and one woman she said were acting suspiciously when she had the kids out on the playground._

"The detective put it down to paranoia," Erik says as he reads off the case notes, the journal that the now-retired detective had left with the files and evidence. "She was new, and there'd been reports of an attempted kidnapping in the area. The suspect in that case was caught. But it's not paranoia if you know they're watching."

"Exactly." Charles taps the interview list. "It's very possible she saw the person who killed the Lockwoods. And she might have an idea of what would have made Madeline stand out."

Why her and not the twenty other upper-middle-class kids, Charles means. Erik likes kids (well, the idea of them; the reality he doesn't know how to deal with outside of certain circumstances), and Madeline is a typically cute kid, with curly dark hair and brown eyes and a gap-toothed preschooler’s smile; she's likely not all that remarkable in a group of clumsily adorable small humans. The first investigation had, naturally, run the predator angle into the ground, but even the multiple possibilities presented by other child abductions and Wendy Lattimore's detailed, paranoiac account of the people watching her school had given them had all come to nothing.

He's reaching for the phone to start the search for Wendy Lattimore, daycare instructor, when Charles goes rigid, gaze snapping up to stare hard over Erik's shoulder. His mouth moves soundlessly, but his voice is a sudden, panicked clamor in Erik's head; _Mother._

Erik turns. A slender woman, her hair gone to an ashy, worn-out blonde, drifts like a ghost through the maze of desks. Her red dress is vivid against the sober grey of Moira's suit – Moira, who's walking close by her, trying to steer her to her office.

She's a good-looking woman, one who would have been even prettier when she was young; her features are much finer than Charles’s, but Erik can see a resemblance in the shape of her face, the eyes and the line of her brow. She's walking a bit unsteadily, frowning as her eyes search the room, like she's looking for something that doesn't seem right or that's in a different place from where she remembers leaving it.

Her gaze stops on Charles, lingering for long enough that there's no doubt that she's seen him, _recognized_ him – and then she turns away again, without a word of acknowledgment, following Moira into the office.

Erik curses silently and turns back to Charles. Charles's hands, resting on the desk, are trembling; as soon as Erik notices it, Charles looks down at them himself, and then tucks them into his lap where Erik can't see.

Erik wants to reach out to him, to touch him, comfort him with the touch of another person's skin, but he restrains himself. Charles would hate it, and they're surrounded by people who don't need to see Charles like this, or see Erik soothing him. He lets himself play with the paperweight on his desk, keeping part of his mind aware of the heft and weight of the metal lump, rearranging its shape in tiny subtle strokes. 

_It's been a long time since you've seen her_ , Erik says, half a question.

Charles nods. He looks up from where he's been studying his hands and his expression, at least, has changed from that shocked and upset face to something that's somehow both calmer and angrier. _Five years_ , Charles tells him in response. _Since I left for college._

Erik has to dig a nail into his own skin to keep from picturing it, fourteen-year-old Charles leaving home forever; whatever feelings the image might provoke in him, they aren't ones that Charles wants or needs to deal with right now. _She hasn't contacted you since then?_

Charles shakes his head slightly. _I didn't – I changed my phone number, never sent her any of my addresses. She wouldn't have known how to get in touch with me._

They both know that if his mother had wanted to, she would have been able to find him with the slightest bit of effort. Erik doesn't say, or think, anything about it, but he doesn't hold back the warm crackle of rage that's been steadily growing since Charles startled.

_Thank you_ , Charles sends, the gratitude wan and bloodless, _but..._

Something happens then, Charles vanishing from his post at the periphery of Erik's awareness. Shielding, Erik realizes, drawing in on himself. When he's heard other telepaths talking about it, he's always imagined it as a simple blocking-out, a choosing not to hear, but with Charles now, he sees it for the defensive, protective thing that it is. It stings, thinking that Charles doesn't want to lean on him, even knowing that Charles is afraid of becoming dependent; it stings, thinking that even Erik's emotions aren't welcome.

Charles doesn't hear any of this, of course, retreating in on himself and into the case. Erik has half a mind not to let him, but the other half knows he wouldn't have welcomed anyone interrogating him about his mother, or anyone trying to psychoanalyze him about her death and his nightmares about Shaw. He thinks, knowing that Charles isn't listening, that if Sharon Xavier had been any kind of mother, a mother who hadn't seen her son for years, she would have been able to ignore Charles's silent instruction not to see him and to continue on her way. Of course, if she'd been any kind of mother, Charles wouldn't have turned her aside and preferred her ignorance to her acknowledgment of him.

They go back to the case, although their progress is stilted. Charles's mind is far away, where Erik can't find him, so Erik calls around instead, tracking down Wendy the daycare teacher and a couple other people on their list. One of them is dead. Wendy's moved out to Queens.

By the time he works that out, Sharon is leaving Moira's office. Moira clasps her hand cordially, her face in the carefully somber neutrality that Erik knows is meant to convey a precise mixture of sympathy and resolve. So this is something some poor person is going to be stuck investigating, with Sharon – or her representatives – demanding updates left and right. It's a relief knowing that they won't be assigned the case; it's a bitter relief, but one all the same.

It's only after Sharon's left that a little of the tension goes out of Charles's stiff frame. He stirs, looking for all the world like he's awaking from a daydream, and stands up and drifts away from Erik without a word. Erik watches him approach Moira's office, letting himself in without knocking or asking for permission, and Erik looks away only when Charles sits down in one of the chairs facing Moira's desk.

It shouldn't be this hard to give Charles his privacy. His _space_. Erik knows, after all, how important that is, how much a person can learn to cling to it when it's all they have for themselves. He does understand why Charles needs it. It's not even, really, a matter of trust – though he does want Charles to trust him – but rather, he wants to let Charles know he's not _alone_ in this, or anything, any more.

Charles has been alone for a long time, especially for someone so young. And Erik can't promise him anything, as much as he wants to, can't promise that something won't happen in the future that will leave Charles alone again. The worst can always happen. Small wonder that Charles hesitates to let Erik in too deep.

It wasn't so long ago, that morning that Erik walked in here, stopped to talk to Summers and learned about the new consultant Moira had hired. He'd looked up and across the office, through the windows of one of the side rooms, where Charles sat, surrounded by a mountain of forms, and Charles had... He'd given Erik a look, too old and too knowing for a kid his age, a look that said _Yes, I remember you_ and _I don't care what you think about me, I'm not intimidated by you_ and _I know more than you, about anything and everything_.

Erik had recognized him, of course, as the boy from the bodega. It had been a brief encounter, and something like that might have slipped Erik's mind under normal circumstances, but Charles was memorable. Not only for his ability, though Erik thought that was likely most of it – he'd used it so agilely, so simply, and even as Erik busted him some part of him had admired it, how easily Charles seemed to have integrated that part of himself. At his age, Erik had perhaps had nearly as much raw power, but it had taken him years further to learn the sort of delicacy and precision that Charles already carried with him.

His mutation wasn't the only reason Erik remembered him, though. He remembered the eyes, uncannily bright, and the way the kid's mouth had hung open in shock – Erik had surprised him, and he obviously wasn't used to being surprised. He hadn't noticed Erik's presence until Erik stopped him on his way out with a hand to his wrist, and Erik could see, as easily as he could see the dark circles under the kid's eyes and the wariness in the blue eyes themselves, how much he was obviously beating himself up for letting his guard down enough to miss Erik's presence.

Erik had given him a warning and let him keep the Scotch. In return, the kid hadn't done a thing to Erik's perception or memory. Erik hadn't considered that he might ever see Charles Xavier again, right up until he saw him that morning in the station.

The second he'd found out Charles's name, he'd gone researching. Now he has Charles's words ringing in his head, that people seek the explanation that best fits their view of the world, no matter how improbable, because it's easier to accommodate truth when it fills a gap than to adjust their private order of things. But back then – only a month, although it seems forever – he had seen detailed reports of Xavier Biodynamics and its string of discoveries, its profits. He'd seen pictures of a ten-year-old Charles in a suit and tie looking on as his father was laid to rest and, right under it, the reporter's almost casual mention of the company's net worth and the estate Charles stood to inherit.

It had been easy, then, to adjust his explanation: that Charles was the sort of spoiled brat who thought himself world-weary, who'd decided to consult to kill time, to slum with the working stiffs, to kick over the traces before he settled down to a long life of privilege. Yet that first glimpse of Charles remained hidden, surfacing when Erik had gone home for the night or when he'd worked on another case Charles wasn't assigned to.

While Erik stews in his memories and tries to get back to work, thoughts of Charles determined to spill over into where they don't belong, Munroe wanders over with a message from Summers. It really is a message; Munroe turns the gossip mill as much as anyone else, but she's tactful about it. From the mutterings Erik's been hearing around the station, the mill is going full-force. Charles must have shielded to block out the speculation as much as anything.

At last Charles comes out, mouth thin and set, his shoulders slumped but with a tension running across them. He's still tied up in himself, although Erik doesn't really need telepathy to see how terrible Charles must feel. It's not grief – Erik is willing to bet there was also no love lost between Charles and his stepfather – but something even more hollow. Erik knows what old memories look like, and what it looks like when someone's drowning in them.

"You want to come with me to talk to Wendy?" he asks. And then, because he knows that what Charles needs (quiet, care, only Erik) and what Charles wants (for Erik to pretend he's not falling apart) are two different things, he adds, "Or do you want to finish your crossword?"

Charles rolls his eyes, and if it's a little forced, Erik's willing to let him get away with it. "Of course I'm coming," Charles says. "You need me there, don't you?"

Erik says, "I did my job perfectly well years before you came along, Xavier," which maybe – when Erik thinks about it – isn't really an answer to the question Charles is asking.

They grab their jackets and head out to the car. Erik stops to pick up some sandwiches on the way (ham for Charles, pastrami for Erik) and they begin the trip to Queens. Traffic's bad today, so it takes longer than it has any right to, the silence filling with questions neither one of them want to ask or answer. Once he's finished eating, Charles reaches for the radio. It's set to the classic rock station, and Charles gives Erik a sidelong glance.

"I know you're old," Charles says, "but you're not _this_ old."

Erik says, "Most of everything is crap, but with older stuff, time's already filtered out a lot of the worst of it."

Charles shakes his head, but there's a small smile on his face that Erik thinks is genuine. He continues playing with the dials; Erik suspects it's as much to have something to do with his hands, his nerves, as anything else. Erik himself always uses his powers to tune it. Charles has never touched the radio before, any of the times they've ridden together. Erik likes that he's doing it now, making himself a little more at home with Erik's things.

They make it to Wendy's work, a bright colored building on a fairly prosperous looking block. Wendy's surprised but willing to talk to them, and though most of Erik's focus is on her, part of him notices the way Charles's face softens as they walk past the rooms with small kids at play or napping, as Wendy leads them to the empty playground to speak in private.

Wendy's eager to cooperate but it's obvious to Erik that she doesn't remember much of anything from back then, even before Charles confirms it with a frustrated _She's reaching, looking for any bone to throw to us, but there's nothing there. Her original identifications were shaky – she convinced herself she remembered them more clearly than she actually did. What do you want me to do now?_

_Is there anything you can do?_ Erik only has a general sense of what Charles is allowed to do, legally, within the scope of an investigation. He senses Charles's ethics are somewhat more flexible than the limitations the NYPD places on his abilities, but this isn't the day to push.

_No_ , Charles sends, the annoyance sharp as a knife. _But...._ He pauses. _Ask her if she remembers anything specific about Madeline. She's thinking about her very strongly._

"You must have worked with hundreds of kids over the years," Erik says. Wendy's face is somewhere in the middle space between young and old, although she's no longer the fresh-faced education major who had taught all those years ago. "But you still remember Madeline clearly."

"It's hard to forget the kids you lose." Wendy bites her lip, tucking her cardigan and scarf more closely around her. "There haven't been many, thank goodness, but some... I had a little boy die of leukemia a couple of years ago. A girl in a car accident before that. Maddy's the only one who.... well, you know. Disappeared."

"Do you remember her for reasons other than her disappearance?" Erik asks. "Even though you can't recall a specific person who may have had an interest in her, you might remember something that made her... attractive to them." The words feel dirty in his mouth. Wendy flinches.

"I mean, I always think my students are special," Wendy begins hesitantly. "And I don’t... I don't know how you'd see a little kid _that way_. But I always, well, Maddy was bright. Even for the kinds of kids who went to Lowood. Her parents had to scrape and save to send her there because we were the only curriculum that could keep up with her."

_A genius_ , Charles says. There's an air of distraction to his words, most of him focused entirely on Wendy, who's lost in her own memories. Erik wonders if Charles is prodding her along, encouraging her back into the past.

"Like I said, she was intelligent, cheerful – such a happy kid – and very sensitive." Wendy laughs. "Most kids that age aren't, you know." Charles smiles briefly; Erik nods for Wendy to continue. She does, with a rueful shake of her head, another pause to brush some windblown hair away from her face. "If I was having a bad day, she'd come up to me during naptime and I'd say 'Why aren't you on your blanket, Miss Maddy?' and she'd say," Wendy laughs again, "she'd say, 'You feels sad to me, Miss Wendy.'"

_There_. Charles's shock is almost visceral, enough that Erik feels it as a throb of adrenaline in his gut. _That's it, Erik. That's it._

_What?_ Erik demands silently, aware that Wendy is staring at both of them in consternation and unable to do anything about it. _Charles, what the fuck is going on?_

_Madeline_ , Charles replies. He's gone pale again, eyes glassy when he finally looks up at Erik. _She was a mutant, Erik, just manifesting. A telepath._

_Fuck_ , Erik thinks, _shit fuck_. He doesn't say a word out loud, but he can tell he hasn't had the same control over his face by the way Wendy's eyes widen and she takes a step back. He'd try a smile to calm her down, but he knows from experience that it tends to only make people more uncomfortable, so instead he just thanks her for her help, tells her they'll contact her again if they have questions, and immediately starts to escort Charles out of the building.

In the car, they're both quiet, Erik glancing over from his driving occasionally to see Charles's head resting against the window, staring out at the road ahead, leading back into the downtown. Erik turns over the conversation with Wendy, resolutely ignoring the clench of _Shaw did it, Shaw killed them_ , because Shaw had been safely in prison for almost six years by the time the Lockwoods had been killed. It doesn't stop him from considering the possibility of a mutant supremacist group, the Acolytes or the Hellfire Club, perhaps – Shaw had had ties to both – although those groups had almost vanished by the late nineties, limited only to hardline separatists. They wouldn't have had the resources to track down a manifesting toddler so quickly.

But… Erik can't stop himself from glancing at Charles. Mutant separatists might not have found out about Maddy Lockwood, but that didn't mean someone else couldn't have.

Charles is the first one to break the silence, about ten minutes into the trip, though he still doesn't look Erik's way.

"As much as I appreciate your – your courtesy," Charles says slowly, tasting out the words, "you might as well come out with it."

"Come out with what?" Erik says. 

Charles lifts his head then, turning toward Erik, and Erik meets his eyes, trusting his awareness of the metal of the other cars on the road to keep them safe while he watches Charles. "We both know who was deeply interested in telepathic youth thirteen years ago," Charles says.

Erik wishes impotently that they were having this conversation somewhere else – over a table, a couch, somewhere they could touch, where he could give Charles his full concentration. Even his desk, with people surrounding them, would be better than this.

"Do you think that he – " Erik trails off.

Charles hesitates, and then shakes his head. "No." He says it again, with more assurance in his voice, "No. If my father had been involved, it would have been to pay off the Lockwoods for access to Maddy to study, not for anything like this. This isn't his style. He wouldn't have been capable of it – I remember him well enough to know that."

Erik has been a cop too long to take the word of a family member as fact, but he trusts Charles on this. However much Charles might think himself a coward, he doesn't shrink away from harsh truths; he wouldn't lie, not when murder and a little girl's life are on the line, and he wouldn't be able to fool himself, either, with the way his memory works.

"There's something else, though," Charles says. "He wasn't involved in this, but he had to have been aware of Maddy Lockwood. He kept track of them. Manifesting kids, especially kids like me."

Erik frowns. He makes a close turn, ignoring the car behind them as it beeps its horn. "How? Any information would have been confidential – "

"The privacy laws weren't as strict then as they are now. The Unsworth Act wasn't passed until five years later – " and of course, Erik knew that, he'd bussed down to DC to be part of the rallies and marches, " – and, of course, money always trumps ethics," Charles finishes, bitterly. "I'd bet that her file is still somewhere in the vaults at the company."

"And I'm sure they're going to hide behind privacy laws now." Erik accelerates as traffic opens up a little, hunting for a chance to change lanes. The car thrums reassuringly around him. Charles makes a noise of sarcastic agreement. "Charles, do you," he huffs out a breath, hating the question already, "do you remember anyone who would have been capable of killing the Lockwoods and taking Maddy to study?"

Charles shakes his head. His eyes have slid shut and he's turned away again, slumped in his seat awkwardly. It hurts, looking at him. Erik tries to concentrate on driving instead. "My father wouldn't have allowed it." He says this with the same bitterness that's touched his words throughout this conversation. "It wasn't really a matter of ethics, you understand, it was a fear of getting caught. He wanted progress, change, improvement, but he didn't want it badly enough to do something so risky. And if he suspected anything... underhanded," _other than experimenting on his own son_ , "he would have put a stop to it."

"Or hushed it up," Erik points out. "Even if he didn't order that the Lockwoods be killed, he could have cleaned up afterwards."

"I never sensed anything like that from him," Charles says. He lifts his head and blinks as they bump over the gutter and up the ramp to the station garage. In the sickly yellow lights he looks terrible, washed to grey and his eyes strangely feverish, red-rimmed. "There's no way you can avoid that kind of thought, the feelings that would stir up, having to compromise your principles." He snorts. "What you tell yourself are your principles."

Erik pulls into his parking space and turns the car off, listens to its engine tick down into silence. Charles sighs heavily.

"We'll have to bring this to Moira," Erik says quietly. "And we're going to need her help to get Maddy's file out of the company's clutches."

Charles's lip curls. "Good luck even then. The company's lawyers do more than defend its patents, you know."

The defeat in his voice is far too old for someone who's barely seen nineteen years. Charles is still locked up inside his own head but clearly in pain, whether from the stress of the day or from limiting himself or both, Erik can't tell. But he _can_ tell it's time to go home, and in the quiet walk from their parking space up to the office, he decides he'll write up his notes, arrange a meeting with Moira tomorrow, and get Charles out and home and safe. 

He tells Charles his plan – the first two bits of it, at least – and Charles nods and lets him go, not even insisting on following Erik, rather than staying in the car. If Erik didn't already know something was wrong with him, that would have done it. He doesn't quite rush through his tasks, but he doesn't tarry, either, and he's back to the car and Charles within a few minutes.

"Do you want to come over to my place tonight?" Erik says quietly.

Charles makes a complicated face, pained and apologetic. "Erik, I can't – I really don't think I'm up to having sex tonight. Sorry."

It feels like a blow, like an insult, and Erik has to remind himself that Charles doesn't intend it that way. "That's not what I meant," Erik says, after he's had a moment to collect himself. "I don't only want to be around you for sex. If you'd rather be by yourself tonight, that's fine, but I'd like to be with you."

Charles blinks at him, and Erik has to look away from him, from the confusion and vulnerability tangled up in his face. "All right," Charles says. "If you're sure..."

"I'm sure," Erik says. Of course he's sure. It's not as though Erik has a lack of certainty in any of the decisions he makes, but what he feels for Charles is so far beyond the rest as to leave them in the dust. 

The trip to Erik's building is just as quiet as the ride from Queens, but the silence has a different quality, gentle instead of strained, even after they arrive and make their way up to Erik's apartment. Charles merely looks reflective instead of troubled as he stands next to Erik in the elevator, gazing at their blurry reflections in the brushed steel doors.

"Does pasta sound good for dinner?" Erik says, as he lets them in. 

Charles brushes past him, shaking his head as he begins to make his way through the apartment. "I'm not hungry," he mumbles, dropping his jacket on the couch before disappearing down the hallway.

Erik takes the time to go through Charles's duffle, put a load of his clothes from yesterday into the washer, and grabs a water bottle from the fridge before he follows Charles to the bedroom.

Charles is already stretched out on the bed on his side, almost fully dressed – his button-down shirt is on the floor, and his shoes are halfway under the bed, but everything else is still in place. His eyes are closed and he's clutching a pillow. Erik sits down, a few feet away from his head. He wants very badly to stroke Charles's hair, but he doesn't.

"Can I ask you a favor?" Charles mumbles, halfway into the pillow, so that Erik has to strain to hear him.

"Of course," Erik says, not quite as gruffly has he wants. "Whatever."

"I need..." Charles's entire body heaves with a sigh. "I can't be in this day anymore," he says after a pause. It's the most fucking cryptic statement Erik's heard out of Charles's mouth in a long time, and that's saying something. Charles must know he's not being clear, seems irritated at Erik for not understanding but mostly irritated at himself. "I can't describe it. It's not sleeping, exactly. It's – I don't know what it is. But I can step outside of myself when I need to. Usually when I'm too overwhelmed, or when I've had to shield too much."

"Okay." Erik feels ridiculous, sitting perched on the edge of his own bed, hands impotently in his lap. He settles one of them, hesitantly, by Charles's knee and, when Charles doesn't object, shapes his palm to the curve of Charles's calf. 

"It's – the other day, after I left your apartment?" _Ran_ Charles means, that terrible day and night that Erik had spent roaming the city and cursing the both of them. "It's one of the reasons I didn't, well... I needed to get out of myself. It helps me process things, understand them, to be pure thought for a while..."

He trails off, sounding wistful, stroking the soft lump of the pillow absently. Erik's heart twists, thinking about how this is the other side of Charles, the untouchable, remote, disembodied thing Erik, in all his physicality, can't understand.

"What do you want me to do?" Erik asks. "Sleep on the couch?"

"No," Charles says with a ghost of a laugh. "I just need you to... to not freak out. You don't need to watch me or anything. It's probably pretty boring."

"I'll be here, Charles." He wonders briefly if Charles wants to change into something more comfortable, but Charles responds almost instantly, _No, there's no point. It won't matter._

There's a finality to the words, as if Charles is giving up something irrevocably. But Charles smiles at him, a smile Erik's only seen a handful of times, and sends _I'll be back soon_ , and then his eyes close, his breath slowing and his pulse steadying, his body going limp.

And something immense swells around Erik, a vast, invisible presence that hovers around him. He freezes, torn between the sudden realization that Charles is barely breathing, oxygen and blood a sluggish crawl in his veins, and the awareness of this new creature that fills up the air and surrounds him and holds him – and calms him, he realizes, and it's _Charles_ , or part of him, the part he keeps chained up that's now beautifully unfettered. _Pure thought_ Charles had said, and that's what this – he – is.

Then that presence is gone, dispersing outward like a supernova, leaving Erik with Charles's still body in the dark of his unlit bedroom.

He feels like a knight on a vigil, preparing to take his vows. Perhaps he is, in his own way. He stares down at Charles's pale face, his slack limbs, and he _knows_ that it's a shell, that the part that is truly Charles isn't there right now, but he can't make himself believe it, not when this body is so dear to him. He can't separate them in his mind, Charles's physical self from his mental self. 

His heart feels like it's breaking open in his chest, overcome with protectiveness and tenderness and ( _admit it, Lehnsherr_ ) yes, love. All the thoughts he keeps hidden from Charles, too afraid of scaring him off, overwhelming him with his naked want and need, too much, too soon – he lets them out, now, as he settles himself on the bed, back to the headboard, adjusting Charles so his head rests comfortably on Erik's thigh, Erik's hand steady and gentle on the nape of his neck.

Erik loses track of time, like that. He thinks about the case, about Shaw, about Charles's stepfather; about the last weekend, Charles naked in his bed touching himself, Charles across the couch, mating Erik's king, Charles biting into his chicken at the restaurant with a look of pure pleasure, Charles in Erik's car two weeks ago making snide remarks while Erik ignored him. Charles, Charles, always Charles. It shouldn't be possible – shouldn't be allowed – for someone to become so necessary, so quickly. Erik lets the thoughts drift off, one after the other, not bothering to pursue them or hold them close, letting them wander where they will.

He falls asleep like that. He regrets it when he wakes up with his neck and back stiff from the awkward position, his thigh numb from the weight of Charles's head, mouth utterly dry. 

But when he looks down at his lap, Charles's eyes are open, and he's staring up at Erik, open-mouthed with something that looks like wonder.

"Hey," Erik says. His voice is craggy and thick from sleep, and he has to clear his throat before he continues. "You're back."

"Yeah," Charles says. "Erik – thank you, for this." He raises himself up, one hand on Erik's knee, until he's sitting up beside Erik on the bed.

"It's nothing." Erik rotates his neck, wincing as the tendons crack and snap in protest.

"No, it's not," Charles protests, but cuts himself off before he says any more. He shifts so he's kneeling, facing Erik, rubbing hesitantly at the knots that have tied themselves up while Erik slept. Charles says reproachfully, "I told you, you didn't need to stay."

"I wanted to." He bites back a moan as Charles hits a sore spot, his fingers prodding the knot into looseness. "Do you feel better?"

"Yeah," Charles says again, subdued but not sad. There's a tranquility to him that's been lacking since this morning, as if he's shed the impossible weight of the past two days, between Shaw, his mother, and the case. Of course he _can't_ shed it, his memory being what it is. "It helps with perspective," Charles says, picking up the thread of Erik's thought. "I learned it a while ago, when things started piling up."

He says it glibly, but Erik's had some experience of the sorts of things that might drive a kid to find a way to escape, to find some control in a world made of uncontrollable things. His had always been sneaking way to a secret place and doing what he still does – tearing metal apart, breaking it down into its smallest pieces, reconstituting it, bending it, reshaping it, breaking it again. Charles's is forgetting how messy the world is, forgetting how the body inherits the mind's pain and turns it to a deep, throbbing hurt, and simply leaving.

"I know you don't want to hear it," Charles murmurs; he's closer now, his breath warm on the side of Erik's neck. He's stopped rubbing Erik's neck, the massage turning to Charles's arms wrapped around Erik's shoulders. Erik doesn't dare turn his head, not even when Charles brushes a silent, aching _thank you_ across his mind and follows it with a delicate brush of lips against where Erik's pulse has started to beat faster.

"Charles..." Erik says helplessly.

_I know what I said earlier, in the car,_ Charles says, nuzzling softly against Erik's throat. _But if you want to, I've changed my mind._

"I want to," Erik says. He can’t imagine he won’t always want to. "If you're sure. I want _you_."

Charles sighs, the hot rush of air skimming across Erik's skin, lighting up his nerves. Erik does turn his head, then, nudging at Charles's face until he can fit their mouths together into a slow, deep kiss. Charles's hands clench and unclench against Erik's shoulder blades in a steady rhythm, and Erik brings his own hand up to Charles's neck, holding him close as they continue to kiss.

Charles pulls away, eventually, projecting a reluctance that's as deep as that Erik feels. _Just let me_ , Charles says, and he climbs off the bed to shed his clothes. He's turned away from the bed, but that just means Erik has an even better view of his ass. Erik can't look away, greedily cataloging every bit of skin that comes into sight. He sends out his appreciation, and Charles glances over his shoulder long enough to give Erik a cheeky smile.

He should take care of his own clothes, Erik realizes; as pleasant as last night was, coming in his pants isn't an experience he needs to repeat. It only takes him a few moments to undress, and then he returns to the bed, where Charles has pulled the bedspread down out of the way and is kneeling, waiting for him.

"Maybe I wanted to help with that," Charles says, nodding toward him.

Erik smiles. "Sorry," he says, and then he's kissing Charles again.

Charles pushes on Erik's shoulders, not breaking the kiss as he guides Erik into position, lying him down on his back. Charles's hand strokes across Erik's throat, down his chest, stopping to play gently with each nipple before going on to rub a slow circle on Erik's belly, around his navel.

When he does pull his lips away from Erik's, it's so he can immediately plant them back on Erik's neck – not nipping or marking, but the same delicate kisses he was leaving before. "I want to suck your cock," Charles whispers, quiet but distinct against Erik's skin.

"Anything," Erik says, and, before he can stop himself, _anything you want_.

Charles looks up at him, and god, Erik has to let himself be looked at, although it's not that intense scrutiny or intense absence of Charles using his abilities. It's raw, nearly disbelieving, and Erik can't put a name to it because it changes too quickly, as if Charles hadn't let himself believe, before this moment, that Erik's meant everything he's said or thought about the two of them, and now acceptance is pushing through, and understanding that this is real and something to be trusted. When Charles kisses him again, it's not frantic or sloppy, but grateful, Charles licking into Erik's mouth and sighing when Erik returns the kiss and holds him close.

At last Charles breaks away to slide down Erik's body, soft smile with hints of wickedness at the corners as he kisses the smooth, trembling skin beneath Erik's navel. Erik shifts his legs to accommodate Charles's body between them, shivering as Charles's shoulders brush along his thighs, holding them open with an unlikely strength. Erik's toes tickle Charles's ribcage before Charles gets settled, his dark eyes gazing up solemnly at Erik and what he sees Erik has no idea, but it's probably too much.

Finally Charles bends down, eyes slipping shut as he takes the head of Erik's cock into his mouth. "Fuck," Erik breathes, clutching the blankets in one hand to channel the burst of sudden, aching pleasure, the other hand gently cradling Charles's head, fingers buried in his hair. Charles sighs and begins to suck, lapping pulses of his tongue against the underside of Erik's dick, pads of his fingers rubbing against the soft, hot skin of Erik's balls, and there's nothing to do, Erik decides, but give himself over to the slow pace that Charles sets.

It's a pace that's designed not so much to get Erik off as to allow Charles to explore, to learn every detail of the taste and smell and feeling of Erik until he's had his fill. _You taste good_ , Charles says dreamily. The sound that Erik hears come out of his own mouth can only be called a whimper as Charles pushes himself lower, slowly and steadily taking more and more of Erik's cock into his mouth and, yes, his throat, deeper than Charles has ever taken him before. He can feel the effort Charles is putting into it, the determination that he projects from the beginning, which only grows stronger as it grows more difficult.

"Easy," Erik breathes out, scratching his nails lightly against Charles's scalp, "easy..." It's a challenge to hold himself still, when his body wants so badly to thrust into that sweet wet heat, but he doesn't want to gag or choke Charles, either.

_No_ , Charles responds, _just let me-_ He shifts his position on the bed, changing the angle, and this time when Charles pushes himself down, he is able to take in even more, take it _all_ , until Erik's cock is completely buried in his throat. Charles holds still, then, not moving or sucking, breathing slowly through his nose as he gets used to the sensations.

Erik pushes himself up on his elbows for a better view. Charles's red lips, stretched so fucking wide around the base of Erik's cock; it looks impossible, for the skin to be that taut without splitting or cracking. He extends his finger, tracing along the edge of the lips, still as soft as ever, soaking now with Charles's spit; Charles shudders at the touch, even more when Erik moves his hand to Charles's cheek, pressing down against his own cock inside.

He lies back down, then, closing his eyes and returning his hands to their gentle grip in Charles's hair. After a minute Charles starts to move, lifting and lowering his head in a steady rhythm, a slow drag of letting Erik's cock fall from his mouth, only to swallow it back down a moment later.

_Such a lovely cocksucker_ , Erik thinks, feeling almost giddy. _You're so good, so good, I'm so lucky._

Charles moans around him, vibrations that shake through Erik's entire body.

Charles's own pleasure catches at him, although Erik's spiraling slowly down and through the haze of aching, transcendent delight needs a moment to realize what it is. It's what Charles feels, how much he loves Erik's cock resting heavy on his tongue and filling his mouth, the heady satisfaction of feeling Erik go to splinters, a thrill of danger as he chokes and his throat flutters around Erik's dick and he doesn't pull off but rides through it. And it's Charles's utter immersion in the moment, that same languor that slows time down so it's honey-trapped and deliberate, that has Erik wanting this to last forever and wanting to fly apart, like glass breaking in slow motion.

_Can you come for me?_ Charles asks. The words, silent as they are, sink into him, reaching for a place buried deep inside and hooking into him. Erik gets his eyes open and stares blurrily down at Charles's head moving between his legs, the strong, capable fingers kneading his hips and ass more than holding them so he can't thrust although Erik's stayed so carefully still. Erik shivers and tries anyway, a heartfelt groan when his cock pushes deep into that warm, wet softness, and Charles responds with a rough sound that nearly undoes Erik and _yes, yes, come down my throat, please, I want you –_

He does, hard and deep, his body drawn tight around the orgasm that rushes on him so sudden and sharp he cries out before he can stop it. It's Charles's name, the two syllables broken by a gasp for breath that doesn't quite come; and all he can think is that he might come forever, Charles drawing his climax out until the pleasure tips over into pain and Erik even wants that to continue, panting and sobbing as Charles whispers silently to him, words Erik can't decipher because he's overcome.

Finally he collapses back into his pillows like his strings have been cut. He's slick and spit-covered, his cock still twitching a little as Charles sleepily laps at him, cleaning the last oozing drops of come from the head, curled so perfectly between Erik's legs as if he belongs there.

Finally Charles lets him go, a small sigh escaping him as he rests his head on Erik's thigh. He pats Erik's cock, lazy and fond, still watching with his satisfied eyes, and Erik can only shiver and yank on his hair, drag him up so Erik can kiss him. Charles comes willingly, and his body twines around Erik's as his tongue licks into Erik's mouth, sharing with him what Erik tastes like.

Erik keeps one hand in Charles's hair, tugging hard to feel the way it makes something in Charles's mind spark bright every time. His other hand he slips between them, grabbing at Charles's slick, hard cock. Charles bites hard at Erik's lips as Erik begins to jerk him off, rough fast strokes that don't want Charles to wait. 

_Is this what you need_?

_Yes_ , Charles says, still kissing him hard, thrusting eagerly into Erik's fist, _yes, please, Erik, I want to come-_

_I'll take care of you_ , Erik promises, _I've got you_. He moves his hand faster, twisting at the end, thumbing at Charles's sensitive slit every time in a way that makes him cry out into Erik's mouth. He's sharing his pleasure with Erik, projecting it out to him, so that Erik is barely even aware of his own body, the way Charles's thigh is a little too much against Erik's sensitive softened cock or the way Charles's fingernails are digging into Erik's biceps hard enough that they might break the skin. All he can focus on is that growing pressure in Charles's belly and balls, the way the fire's stoking up higher and higher, until it's practically unbearable, until there's nothing left to do but let himself burn up completely – 

"Oh," Charles moans, and his cock is pulsing in Erik's fist, over and over again. Erik kisses him through it, not letting up his grip, until Charles slowly extracts himself from the embrace, settling himself on his side, facing Erik.

Erik wipes his hand through the come on his belly, collecting it all in the hollow of his palm, and brings it up to his mouth, flicking his tongue out to taste before offering out it to Charles.

Charles stares straight at him with lidded, sleepy eyes as he licks his own come off Erik's fingers. His mouth is plush and swollen, sensitive with being bitten by Charles's teeth and wrapped around Erik's length. Charles sighs when Erik runs a thumb across his lower lip, quivering a little. _You taste so good_ , Erik tells him as he cleans the rest of Charles from his fingers and kisses him deeply, tasting the two of them mixed together now as Charles's tongue strokes and laps against his. The thought would be exciting if he weren't so spent, if Charles's own afterglow weren't wrapping him up in laziness.

He has enough energy left to clean his belly where Charles's come has splattered across it – with his shirt, another victim to join his trousers from yesterday – and to get them under the covers before the air steals the warmth of their bodies twined together. With his head in the cradle of Erik's chest and shoulder, the comforter almost brushes Charles's ears. Erik tucks it closer and Charles sighs, wriggling in to get a leg over Erik's, brushing his toes – not cold for once – against Erik's shin. Looking down at him, Erik's helpless before the surge of affection, the same he'd felt while watching over Charles earlier, and he'd be terrified of it if he didn't want it so badly.

After they drowse for a bit, drifting between waking and sleeping, Erik realizes hazily that he has no idea what time it is. His alarm hasn't gone off, but the metal outside feels of long-standing cold and the quality of the light is more electric than natural. Nighttime, then.

_It's almost nine_ , Charles says. He yawns and burrows more solidly into Erik's chest. _One of your neighbors is looking forward to a TV show._

Absently, Erik holds Charles against him and watches the light patterns on the ceiling. He's not tired, precisely, but he's not in a hurry to move, even though they need dinner and he probably has disapproving messages from Moira about their early departure waiting for him. He wonders if it's some of Charles's lassitude seeping into him; after coming up out of that.... whatever it was, Charles had _felt_ different, his mental presence more tangible, bits and tendrils of him seeping into Erik.

_That was different, this time_ , Erik sends. He twines his fingers with Charles's where their two hands rest on Erik's belly, underneath the blankets. _You've never sent feelings like that before._

Charles goes still and tense, but doesn't move away; the contact his mind has maintained with Erik's since he'd woken up dims, and Erik wants it back.

_That's how I am_ , Charles says quietly, with the defiance Erik loves about him. _Not everyone likes it, when I send them what I'm feeling. It can be disorienting. My mother –_ The thought cuts off as if Charles has brought a knife down on it.If you don't like it, I'll stop.

_I didn't say I didn't like it._ He stares up at the ceiling and makes his decision. There's no point in holding back any more; he might as well throw all his cards on the table. What Charles chooses to do with them is up to him. Erik's known that from the beginning. He speaks out loud, no hesitation in his voice. "It's part of you, Charles, and I want all of you. Always. Everything you're willing to give me."

It doesn't release the tension from Charles's body; if anything, he stiffens even more, and for a second Erik thinks he's going to pull away, remove himself from Erik's arms completely. Instead, Charles lets out a deep breath, and then, slowly, begins to intentionally relax his muscles, a little at a time, until he's soft and pliant against Erik's body.

He lays a kiss in the notch between Erik's collarbone and says, _I haven't ever felt like this about somebody before._ There's a jittery quality to his thoughts, fear and uncertainty mixing with a yearning that Erik knows as well as he knows his own name. 

Erik squeezes his hand tightly and sends Charles all his wordless impressions, affection and reassurance and desire, as Charles slowly calms. He dozes off again, curled around Erik like that, and Erik lies there, enjoying the sensation, for a few minutes before he leaves, careful not to wake Charles as he slips out of the bed.

He puts on a pot of water for spaghetti. While he's waiting for it to boil, he checks his messages, changes the load of laundry he put on for Charles. After he adds the pasta to the pot, he heats up some sauce to go with it. Instead of setting the table, he dumps some into one large bowl and grabs two forks, taking them both with him back to the bedroom.

Charles has sprawled out further on the bed in his absence. Erik sets the food on the nightstand and sits down, cross-legged, reaching out to shake Charles's shoulder. "Hey," Erik says softly. "Wake up, baby."

"Mmm," Charles says. He doesn't open his eyes, but there's a smile flickering across his face. "I like it when you call me that."

"Come on, sit up," Erik says, "I made us some dinner."

He has to prod at Charles's ribs a bit, but finally Charles turns over on his back and pushes himself up so his back rests against the headboard. When he registers the bowl of spaghetti on the bedside table he becomes a little more alert, breathing in appreciatively and nearly snatching the fork out of Erik's hand.

"Are you feeling better?" Erik asks after Charles has inhaled a few mouthfuls of pasta. It's hard to concentrate on dinner, with Charles – deliberately showily, Erik thinks – licking sauce from the corner of his mouth and slurping noodles between prettily-pursed lips. "I take it you are."

"Much," Charles affirms. He sets his fork down almost self-consciously and leans back, folding his hands in his lap as if they're at a proper restaurant and he wants the waiter to know he's done. With the covers down around his waist, Erik can see the stepladder of his ribs, just beneath their scaffold of muscle, the dip before his belly hollows out. "Thank you."

"Eat some more," Erik says, and taps impatiently on the rim of the bowl. "I didn't make all of this for myself."

"Ate too fast," is Charles's reply, but he twirls a few noodles around his fork and eats them anyway.

They eat silently for a while, Charles picking at the spaghetti as if he's afraid Erik will snap at him for being greedy while Erik pretends to ignore it. He figures Charles won't believe him if Erik says he can have as much as he wants, seeing as there's more in the kitchen, so he settles for subtly nudging the pasta over to Charles's side of the bowl. His mother might have been able to defeat Charles's polite reluctance – Erik still remembers guests being gently bullied or manipulated into seconds and thirds and then into taking something home – and she'd issue a string of orders and recipes designed to put meat on Charles's bones, and expect to see results.

"I think," Charles says, as if picking up on Erik's thoughts and sensing Erik isn't going to let this go, "I want dessert. Do you have ice cream, or is dessert against your personal code?" The sly glint in his eye says he's teasing; it's something Charles is aggravatingly good at.

Erik taps a finger against his chin as if deep in thought. "I think I have some pears I could slice up. Does that count?"

" _No_ ," Charles says, curling his nose in disgust. "Fruit most certainly does not count as dessert, you barbarian."

Erik huffs out a half-laugh, and leans over to drop a peck on Charles's wrinkled nose. "Let me see what I can scrounge up."

"Should I just sit here while you wait on me hand and foot, then?" Charles says. He lifts his linked hands above his head, stretching out far as he lets out a yawn.

"You might as well enjoy it while you can," Erik says, "because it's not going to happen often."

He leaves the pasta on the bed, in case Charles might eat a bit more without Erik there to watch, and heads back to the kitchen. There's no ice cream, but he finds an unopened box of cookies in the back of one of the cabinets, leftover from last time Moira's niece's Girl Scout troop was selling them and Moira unsubtly nudged him into contributing. He's grateful for it now, especially when he sees how Charles's eyes light up when he comes back and Charles spots them in his hands.

"Are those Samoas?" Charles says, sitting up a little straighter. It makes the sheets rumple just that little bit more, showing off a pale flash of hip. "Bring them here!"

He hands the box over to Charles, and while Charles is busily involved in tearing open the packaging, he pushes Charles to scoot forward and make room, so that Erik can climb behind him in the bed, his legs bracketing Charles's, and pull Charles back against his chest. He rubs his hands up and down Charles's ribs while Charles munches greedily on the cookies, stopping only when Charles swats at him absently. _That tickles_.

_Sorry_ , Erik sends, and he settles for lacing his hands together and resting them on Charles's stomach.

Charles finishes four or five cookies in quick succession, and then leans back against Erik, tilting his head so he can make out Erik's face. He lifts up a cookie to Erik's mouth, watching carefully as Erik takes a bite, sugar and coconut and chocolate sweet on his tongue. When he finishes the cookie he licks at Charles's fingers, too, and the same taste is there, overlaying the sweat and sex beneath.

_This is nice_ , Charles offers tentatively. He trusts his weight a bit more to the support of Erik's body, relaxing when Erik wraps his arms around him. _No one's done this for me before._

"They should have," Erik says to the warm mess of Charles's hair. Charles doesn't take kindly to anger felt on his behalf, but he doesn't tell Erik to knock it off and calm down, this time. Instead he rests his head atop Erik's heart, seeming to listen to it for a while.

At last he says, meditatively, "When I was... out, I think I worked out a way for us to get a hold of Maddy Lockwood's records from the company, if they refuse to work with us."

Erik hasn't failed to notice how Charles always says _the company_ and _them_ when talking about Xavier Biodynamics, the company he's to inherit one day, the one he should have been groomed to take over from birth. And the _us_ , that's himself and Charles; Erik can't, doesn't want to, stop the kick of fierce pleasure at that, although he senses work is a way for Charles to avoid heavier things.

"How's that?" Erik asks.

"We can go talk to my mother," Charles says, and before Erik can respond with something like _you've got to be shitting me_ , he continues: "And I'll tell her if the company doesn't hand over Maddy's file, I'll go to the press and tell them what my father did to me, how the company profited off me when I was too young to do anything to stop it." He laughs quietly, not nearly as bitterly as Erik thinks he should. "People who keep track of this sort of thing know I split with the family when I left for Oxford. What they don't know is why; everyone thinks I'm a spoiled, precocious brat trying to be independent and I'll run back home when I realize I don't want to be poor."

It wasn't so long ago that Erik was one of those people; the thought sends a stab of guilt running through him. Charles makes a quiet noise, and rubs a hand over Erik's where they rest against Charles's stomach, a silent soothing gesture.

"Do you really want to do that?" Erik says. "Blackmail your mother?"

Charles shrugs, though there's nothing casual about him. "If it helps with the case," he says, "that's something good coming out of something bad, right?"

Erik squeezes him tighter until Charles says gently, _I have to breathe, darling._ He loosens his grip then, though he doesn't let go. He kisses the crown of Charles's head and says, "If that's what you want to do, that's what we'll do."

"Good," Charles says. His voice is resolute as he says, "I'll call her tomorrow, then, and make us an appointment."

_An appointment, for god's sake._ Erik keeps the anger in, pushes it down far into his belly, and concentrates on Charles here and now, in his arms.

"When this case is done," Erik says, thinking out loud, "I want to take you out. On a date, a real one."

"Like normal people?" Charles says lightly. "You despise normal people."

Erik snorts. "I don't _despise_ normal people," he protests. He doesn't care about them, but that's a completely different thing. "But I mean, just – something nice. We can go dutch, if you insist on it, but I want that."

He can feel Charles's hesitance. It surprises Erik, after all this, that this would be the point where Charles balks, but Charles's boundaries are mysterious and unknowable. 

"It's not that," Charles blurts out, responding directly to the thought. "It's not that at all it's just... I'm not good at that sort of thing, exactly. And I don't mean that in the same way I'm not good at relationships. Doing things in public like that, it's – stressful." He sends Erik a memory of the last time he saw a movie in a movie theatre, packed full of dozens of other people – snarky teenagers making fun of the dialogue in their heads, parents on date night worrying about the kids back home, the couple in the back row making out – and the way that Charles had to use most of his concentration just to block out all those other minds, leaving practically nothing left to let him actually enjoy the film itself. Plays are a hundred times worse; there's no suspension of disbelief when he can hear the actors' internal voices, too.

"What, then?" Erik isn't particularly good at dating himself, having done it so rarely. His repertoire is admittedly limited to dinner and/or a movie, or a trip to some museum. Most of his notions of _proper_ still belong to his mother, who'd sat him down after he'd confessed to her about being interested in a girl in his math class and told him how to show a girl proper respect.

Charles shrugs. "You have a DVD player and a collection of delivery menus."

Under the awkwardly casual words, Erik senses what Charles is trying to get at, trying to push past Erik's ideas of what constitutes a proper date: Charles able to devote all his attention to Erik, the two of them sharing food and space on Erik's couch, pretending to watch a movie while kissing each other casually, talking more than listening to what's happening on the screen. It has an immediate appeal, _and_ , Charles adds with a hint of mischievous selfishness, _I get to have you all to myself_. It almost masks another thought Charles has, of having to choose to ignore the thoughts of people scandalized at a visibly older man with a younger one or to treat Erik as platonically as possible, no hand-holding, no tucking himself close by Erik's side when the winter wind picks up.

"I'm not ashamed of us," Erik says quietly. "I refuse to be. I've told you that already."

"And I'm not either." Charles has adjusted himself so he can face Erik more fully, sitting sideways between Erik's knees, his legs stretched out over Erik's. It's awkward, but Charles doesn't seem to want to move away. "But it's the _thoughts_ , Erik. Even though they don't matter, they're like... it's like having to wave a cloud of gnats away or something. If we're going to go on a – a date," and he blushes, entirely too appealingly, "I want to be able to pay attention to you, not the morons at the next table." He sighs, slumping a little. "Maybe I can work on my shields, so I can still be in contact with you but ignore everyone else. There's still so much I have to figure out."

"Later," Erik says firmly. He gathers Charles close for one last kiss. It dazzles him, a little, that Charles is still testing the limits of his ability; Erik senses a deeper potential in himself sometimes, when his anger is burning at the edge of out of control, but he's never gone there. "We should get ready for bed. It's a long day tomorrow."

"Don't remind me," Charles groans. Somewhat awkwardly, he extracts himself from between Erik's legs and heads for the bathroom, delightfully naked – and, the bastard, reveling in it when Erik's blood goes hot at the sight of his pale, round ass, and laughing when Erik gets up to smack him on one cheek reprovingly ("Don't tease, Charles") and kissing Erik sweetly as he thinks _Maybe you could do that again sometime_ to fluster Erik long enough for Charles to pull on his boxers and go to brush his teeth.


	3. Chapter three: Wednesday

Erik gets them to work early the next morning, to make up for the early afternoon before. He leaves Charles to make the call to his mother while Erik visits Moira and gives him a brief overview of the plan – leaving out the threats and the details of Charles's past makes it sound like an innocent request for the company to volunteer information, so he can't blame Moira for the skeptical look she gives him. Still, she doesn't push, and she gives them the go-ahead.

Charles is off the phone already when Erik gets back to his desk. He looks up at Erik and rolls his eyes. "She's busy with the funeral preparations," Charles says, "but she supposes she can fit us in around two. At the house in Westchester, of course; she's not going to come into the city two days in a row."

"How generous of her," Erik says flatly, sitting down beside him.

"I was going over our conversation with Wendy yesterday, and I think there might be one other thing I missed at the time." Charles leans forward, elbows on the desk, and continues, "Every time she remembered Maddy, she was holding this pink stuffed hippo. Every time. She wasn't ever without it."

Erik turns this over in his head – he can see almost instantly where Charles is going with this. He goes over the list of the items that had been found in the apartment; there had been plenty of stuffed animals in the girl's room, but no hippos. "So whoever took Maddy wasn't a stranger – they knew enough to take her favorite toy, too. They wanted to keep her happy or distracted, at least long enough to accomplish whatever they wanted her for. "

Charles nods. "Which just lends more support to our theory about her mutation being the reason for her kidnapping." _And it means they didn't just kill her to dissect her right then..._

Erik chews on his pen, thinking it over. Of course, Maddy could still be dead – she likely is, given the statistics on child kidnapping. But Charles doesn't want to hear that, out of blindly stubborn optimism or maybe simply needing to believe in the good outcome he knows can't possibly be, just to keep forging ahead.

Charles sighs suddenly, bringing a hand up to rub at his temple. "Oh for god's sake… The detective on Kurt's case is on his way to ask me some questions. Apparently Cain told them I was the only person he knew with a grudge against him."

"You don't have to talk to anybody without a lawyer present," Erik says, and Charles shoots him a dry look.

"I know my rights, Detective," he says, although the words have affection hidden under them. "And any competent detective should be able to work out I had absolutely nothing to do with Kurt's death." _I'm not sorry he's gone,_ , Charles adds silently; there's a peculiar quality to his voice, as if he's got them both shielded. _He was almost as bad as my father was, but after I left I wanted nothing to do with my family or the house or any of it._

"Call me if you need anything," Erik says. He gestures to his temple and Charles nods, a soft wave of gratitude and affirmation passing between them.

The detective in question, William Stryker, is someone Erik tries avoid on the occasions that a case takes him out to White Plains. He's universally unpleasant, and it makes a perverse kind of sense that he'd be the one assigned to Kurt Marko's case. Given the people involved, Erik's sure his office is fielding calls every half-hour, demanding updates and offering rewards or threats as the caller's mood dictates. He wonders if it's Sharon doing the calling, or Cain, or someone else.

Charles stands to greet Stryker as he stalks up, offering a hand that Stryker refuses to take in favor of scowling down at Charles and then at Erik.

"Mr. Xavier, Detective Lehnsherr," he grunts. Erik inclines his head, the most collegiality he's willing to extend. He doesn't like the sense he's gotten that Stryker's already decided Charles is his number one suspect; no telepathy is needed, Erik knows what a detective looks like when he's solved the case in his head and doesn't need any more evidence. He has one of the new telepathy-blocking gadgets on his head, a field-test unit that's been borrowed from the CIA, streamlined to look like a Bluetooth headset. Erik frowns at that, but Charles sends him a quick pulse of reassurance.

_It's nothing I can't handle. The model doesn't have much juice_ , Charles says to Erik; to Stryker, he says, "Detective, if you would like to go to one of the interview rooms? Detective Lehnsherr and I have a case to start working on, but I'm sure Captain MacTaggert can spare us for a few minutes."

He's so faultlessly polite, Erik nearly laughs. Stryker clearly doesn't know what to make of Charles's polish.

Erik keeps a close mental eye on Charles, although the connection is tenuous, changing moment by moment as Charles's attention shifts. He catches boredom, focus, annoyance, a flash of fear, finally an anger that Erik hadn't expected existed in Charles at all, ferocious and all-consuming before it vanishes into calm and then a protectiveness, a sheltering. Protecting _him_ , Erik realizes.

At last Charles reappears mentally and physically, his mind twining warm strands of relief around Erik's. Stryker is scowling, radiating a frustration that Erik finds deeply satisfying.

He mutters something to Charles and Charles keeps a perfectly blank look on his face even as Erik feels his disdain and judgment as Stryker takes his leave. Charles makes his way back over to Erik, sitting down.

_What an asshole_ , Charles says.

Erik snorts.

_He really hates you_ , Charles adds thoughtfully. 

"He's a mutantphobic bigot," Erik says. "We got into it once when our cases overlapped, and he was mistreating a pyrokinetic. I turned him in and he got suspended. I got reprimanded, too, for punching him in the face."

Charles looks down at the desk to hide his smile.

"His car got keyed not too long after that. I think he blames me."

"Should he?" Charles says.

Erik spreads his hand before him, palms up, in an innocent gesture. "I was nowhere near the parking lot when it happened. I was in a meeting with Moira, in fact. You can't get a more reliable witness for an alibi than her."

Charles shakes his head, a little amusement settling over the annoyance he's still projecting towards Stryker. _He tried to use you as leverage to get to me. He didn't come out and accuse us of sleeping together, but he certainly implied it. Even if that sort of tactic were to work on me, I'm not sure what he expected me to say, considering I hadn't seen the man in five years._

Erik wants, suddenly, to reach out and take Charles's hand, perhaps even wrap him up in a hug – but this is _work_ , and work-Charles. There is a time and place for everything, and these feelings don't belong here, no matter how much they seem to keep wanting to escape from the compartment he's devised for them. He scowls down at the papers on his desk and says, "Let's get back to work."

"Of course," Charles says, as carefully neutral as Erik is brusque.

Talking about that has to wait until they're in the car – or, better yet, for some space outside of the case. Charles is already drifting, so preoccupied by the interview with Stryker and with his mother this afternoon that Erik has to bully him into eating lunch. Charles gets headaches if he doesn't eat, the result of a brain that burns through its fuel at an alarming clip despite what Charles says is a related physiological mutation that allows him to absorb glucose more efficiently. How he knows that Erik doesn't ask, but he doesn't really need to.

"Did you manage to get anything out of Stryker?" he asks once they're safely away from the office and the gossip that's already swirling about Stryker's trip there and Kurt's death.

"Plenty, but not much of use," Charles sighs. "Enough that he has to take me off the suspect list; I made a very... forceful case for my refusal to have anything to do with Kurt. And reminded Stryker that Cain himself is hardly a trustworthy person – and that Kurt had plenty of other enemies far more ruthless than myself. I'm hardly good suspect material compared to the rest of Black Womb."

"What the _fuck_." The name alone turns Erik's stomach. He forces his concentration back to the road, pushing the rage and nausea away.

"It was the nickname for a... series of projects that my father's company contracted on. Exploring various possibilities for mutations, indexing mutant genomes, screening for maladaptive mutations. It was government work." Charles's mouth twists. "Xavier Biodynamics stopped bidding when I was eight or so; I remember my father was _conflicted_. He and Kurt were friends at the time; he used to come over for dinner frequently. Kurt wanted to stay involved and my father told him he could if he wanted, but the company would have nothing to do with it. My sense is that they weren't particularly... savory people."

Erik's seen what money, power, and knowledge do to men. It's hideous. "What did you do to convince him to get off your back?"

"I had my take-out receipt from the night I got us Thai," Charles says. "Kurt was murdered in his townhouse on the Upper West Side, my receipt was printed five minutes before his death, and I'm fairly certain the restaurant's driver will tell Stryker he delivered the food a half-hour after they tore the receipt off the register. Not enough time for me to get all the way over there, shoot him, and get back."

That's one good thing at least, Erik tells himself, though it's a small thing next to huge houses starting to loom around them as they arrive in New Salem, and the house waiting for them at the end of Charles's subdued directions.

Erik had thought he was prepared for it – he knows, after all, exactly how much money Charles comes from – but this isn't even a mansion; it's a _castle_. It has towers and turrets, a legion of windows staring out over a wide, perfectly manicured lawn and a private forest. The circle gravel drive has a fountain in the center of it, and hedgerows and gardens all clustered at the foot of the house like colorful embroidery.

"Welcome to Xavier House," Charles mumbles. He unbuckles his seatbelt and scrambles out of the car before Erik can reply. 

For once, Charles leads the way instead of trailing behind Erik's steps. Erik follows him up the pathway to the large, gothic front doors, where Charles raises the large brass knocker and taps firmly, three times.

It takes about a minute for the door to open, revealing a young woman in her twenties, dressed in a perfectly starched black uniform. "Yes?"

"Will you please tell Mrs. Marko her son is here," Charles says clearly. His shoulders are thrown back, and he's standing very straight. "She's expecting us."

"Just one moment," the woman says. She disappears for a moment, and when she comes back she says, "If you'll just follow me..."

She leads them down a number of halls and more than one stairway. If Erik didn't have a perfect sense of direction, didn't have all the various sources of metal and magnetism to guide him, he suspects he'd be lost beyond belief in the labyrinth of identical dark wood and heavy rugs. They stop in what looks like a study or a library, filled with books and a few stiff couches. 

Charles sits down heavily in an armchair and begins to tap his fingers against the embroidered fabric in a nervous gesture. Erik sits down on the couch across from him. He uses his ability to tug gently on Charles's watch, and Charles looks down at his own hand in apparent surprise and stops his fidgeting, curling his fingers into a fist.

"That maid's only been here three months," Charles murmurs. "She never could keep servants."

Erik doesn't respond. All the metal here is old, he thinks, some of it centuries old; even the newer, more up-to-date fittings having a patina of age over and in them.

It's almost ten minutes before Sharon Xavier Marko condescends to join them – and it is condescension, Erik is sure, as soon as she makes her entrance. She's in a dress much like the one from the other day, conservative and sober navy blue, low heels, pearls at her neck. Erik notices her gold wedding ring is gone, in its place a much smaller – but doubtlessly still expensive – silver ring inlaid with gems.

"Hello, Charles, dear," Sharon says, not sounding particularly sincere, "it's so good to see you."

"And you, Mother," Charles says. He doesn't get up to hug or kiss his mother, instead sitting perfectly still, watching her attentively.

Sharon heads straight to the bar on the far end of the room, pouring herself a Scotch on the rocks before drifting over to place a dry kiss on Charles's cheek, which he tilts his head up dutifully to receive. She sits down on the edge of the cushion on the other couch, taking a sip of her drink before setting it on the end table beside her and carefully folding one leg over the other. 

"Are you going to introduce me to your friend?" she says, raising an eyebrow at Erik.

"This is Detective Erik Lehnsherr," Charles says, "of the New York Police Department."

"Mrs. Marko," Erik says coolly and receives a cool nod in return.

He's been weighed, measured, and catalogued, Erik knows; in her own way, Sharon Marko is as precise an observer as any detective. She's examined his clothes, his shoes, the watch on his wrist, the fact that he's close-shaved with neat hair, but no manicure and no particular care taken with the lines on his face. He's passable, a bit rough around the edges but that can be attributed to spending more time on his work than his appearance. _Working class_ , he sees in her eyes, not someone she'd usually associate with, or – Erik realizes this with a jolt – expect her son to associate with.

"Are you here about Kurt?" Sharon asks. Her voice is steady, perfectly neutral as she regards them. Her nails chime against the cut glass holding her drink. Anxiety, perhaps. Despite her flawless makeup and Chanel suit, the pearls glinting at her throat, she's worn down, untidy edges trailing. _Alcohol_ , Charles says when he notices the drift of Erik's attention.

"No, Mother," Charles says patiently. "Your assistant should have told you. I'm working with Detective Lehnsherr."

"Oh, yes, that _consulting_ position you took." Sharon's voice carries dimensions of scorn. She has an accent to match Charles's, but with none of the warmth or life. Erik can't quite believe they're related, that Charles could have come from this person.

Pride surges in him, thinking about how Charles came from this place, from these people, a family that saw him as a tool for its future and nothing more, and he's grown into something so splendid and powerful, and someone so desperately, passionately _good_. Charles blushes and shakes his head, the mental equivalent of a shove at Erik's shoulder. _What_ , Erik thinks back, _it's true._

"And I don't know what I think about the NYPD using telepathic," Sharon's voice shivers around the word; Erik's hackles go up, "consultants. I read about them in the _Wall Street Journal_ when the plan was first approved. It seems terribly invasive."

"There are rules, Mother," Charles says. He's brittle, cracks in his calm starting to show. "And we only work on cold cases, cases where people might need help remembering things they've forgotten, or if they've become confused." Sharon sniffs, although it's in dismissal rather than disapproval; she can't care enough, Erik realizes, to disapprove for long. Charles forges on, although he must know what his mother's thinking, "It's why we've come to see you today. A cold case."

"What on earth would anything like that have to do with me?" That eyebrow tilts upward again and Sharon downs a healthy swallow of her drink.

Erik steps in; technically he's the one who has to interview suspects and witnesses, although Charles can ask questions if he wants. Anyway, he doesn't know how Charles is holding up, if he can stay calm enough to ask the questions that need to be asked. "A young girl," he says, "named Madeline Lockwood. She disappeared thirteen years ago."

"I'm sorry," Sharon says, "I'm afraid that name doesn't ring any bells. I don't know any Lockwoods."

"That's understandable. It's unlikely you ever met her," Erik says. "But we have reason to believe that Dr. Xavier's files may contain some information that pertains to the case, and might help us catch her abductor."

"What on earth does this girl have to with Brian – " Sharon begins, but Charles cuts her off.

"She was a telepath."

That stops Sharon dead. Erik can almost see the cogs whirling in her head, flung into action despite the dulling effects of the alcohol. She takes drink before she speaks. "I'm sorry, Detective, but all of Brian's files are confidential. While I wish you success in your investigation, I'm sure you can understand it's not in the best interests of the company to hand over sensitive information to the police. So, unless you have a warrant..."

"Mother, I'm sure all of us are aware that there are things the company would rather not become more widely known," Charles says. There's an edge of danger to his voice totally unlike his normal cheerfulness; it's chilling and fascinating. "Naturally, we understand your desire to keep things private."

Sharon stares at him, eyes wide. There's a telepathic conversation going on that Erik's not privy to – Charles giving him plausible deniability, he suspects; if he's not witness to the bargain Charles is striking he doesn't have to lie about it later. Sharon looks nauseated, and Erik wonders how much of it is fear, how much memory of the way Charles was used, and how much is simply her distaste and discomfort with Charles's voice in her head. Erik has his suspicions on how it divvies up.

"All right," Sharon says, after a minute. "Of course, Detective, we want to do everything in our power to help bring justice for this girl. Help yourself to whatever you need. Charles, you do remember where your father's office was? His personal files would still be there."

"Of course, Mother. Thank you." Charles stands. "Detective, if you will?"

Erik takes his leave. Sharon ignores both of them, her delicate fingers clutching her drink. She wears three rings, an engagement and wedding ring on her left hand, an antique gold band with sapphire on her right. They're some of the finest things Erik has ever felt, the metal flawlessly worked, although he doesn't have much appreciation for gold or silver. Once they're out of sight, Erik's fairly sure she'll let herself relax the tiniest bit, enough to toss back the rest of her drink and light a cigarette from the pack he'd seen on the sideboard.

Charles doesn't relax. If anything, his face has become harder, the resolution pouring off him. His father's office, Erik thinks. It would have been a place Charles had spent time in, a place that held a comprehensive record of his life as a living, breathing science experiment. _I liked it at first_ , Charles sends, the words flat and empty, gray, unlike the emotions that usually color his telepathic communications. _We played games, he would devise fun tests for me... but then I hit a plateau when I was around four. He wanted to get my strength up, and that's when the experiments started._

"If you tell me what to look for, I can find it," Erik says. He's already pulling out his gloves; it might help to have a sense of who else other than Brian Xavier might have touched those files. His money's on Kurt's fingerprints being among them.

"I can do this, Erik," Charles tells him, looking up at him with blue eyes fierce and uncompromising.

"Of course you can," Erik says. "I'm saying you don't have to."

"I want to." Charles takes in a deep breath and releases it, pauses by a locked door. The lock has a settled sense about it, a bar of metal that hasn't been disturbed in some time. "This is it."

The office is like the rest of the house, paneled in rich wood, the furnishings obviously antique; the one exception is the office chair, sleek and black although dust-covered, in a style from a decade ago. Erik can see there's no phone or computer, only a Rolodex and a blotter. _Straight from the turn of the century_.

"All the company's legitimate research was digitized," Charles says casually. He slips behind the desk and kneels. A few clattering, hollow sounds follow before Charles emerges again, holding a key. "But some of the.... _foundational_ research that began Xavier Biodynamics' work on X-gene mutations was kept in hardcopy. My father even handwrote his notes for me." Charles drops into the chair almost cavalierly and inserts the key into a locked drawer; Erik can feel the initial, rusty protest before the lock turns and the drawer pops open. "Computer records from MRI or CT scans were erased. The files have just the printouts."

Erik comes around the desk to stand beside Charles, looking over his shoulder. 

"These are the ones regarding psionics," Charles says, gesturing. 

Erik takes hold of the pile carefully with his gloved hand and sets it down on the desk in front of them. It's obviously well organized; under other circumstances, Erik might feel a jot of approval. It's separated first by type of ability, and he has to page past empaths and telekinesis before coming to what they're interested in today. The telepathy section is, of course, dominated by Charles: where all the other folders are labeled simply by last name and first initial, Charles's have overflowed into multiple, bulging subparts, each of which has to be labeled by year as well. Erik stiffens his resolve and ignores them, searching quickly for what they need. There it is: _Lockwood, M._

He picks it up and begins skimming through. Copies of all her medical records are here, going back to birth. That's not all, though; the company was doing their own research on her as well. There was nothing really that special about Maddy Lockwood, in the grand scheme of things, Erik thinks; he looks down at the papers covering the desk and thinks, _they did this for every kid_.

"The Lockwoods were approached by the company," Erik says. It's not strictly necessary, since he's been able to feel Charles in his mind, reading along through Erik's eyes, but speaking out loud helps Erik, somehow, to gather his thoughts. "Your father offered to finance Maddy's entire education in exchange for the opportunity to run tests on her. They turned him down flat." _Good for them_ , Erik thinks. "They had a private investigator meet with some of the Lockwoods' friends; I recognize the name of the firm."

Charles nods. "It looks like they talked to Jake Talbot several times." William's best friend, Maddy's godfather – the detective in the original case had spoken with him, but only briefly, enough to establish Talbot had no motive to kill his friend's family and that he knew of no one who did. He certainly hadn't volunteered any information about Maddy's gift when he'd been interviewed.

"All right," Erik says, closing the file and gathering it up. "Let's get out of here."

Charles smiles, a small, ugly thing. "Please," he says, "let's."

Without bringing them back by Sharon, Charles leads them through the maze of hallways, and though Erik knows their position perfectly, it's still startling when they finally reach the outside, the bright sun and broad sky a welcome contrast to that house.

In the car, after he's buckled in, Charles turns to his side, facing Erik. Erik pauses with the key inserted into the ignition.

"I apologize for upending your boundaries between work and personal life," Charles says, a little thickly, "but I thought I should let you know that I suspect I'm really, really going to need to be fucked tonight."

"Jesus, Charles." Forget upending them, Charles has obliterated them. Erik can't decide if he's turned on or angry or confused, if he wants to fuck Charles here and now – find some motel room, somewhere, and the hell with Moira's promise to end their partnership if their relationship spilled over into work – or shout at him for doing this to him or be the therapist Charles doesn't want and tell him sex won't solve his problems. He wonders if there's some middle ground and hopes there is; that ground is the path between the places where Charles might explode.

"I – you know I – " Erik shakes his head. His hand falls away from the key, the check engine light beeping. Charles watches him. "You know I'll do whatever you need, anything you need," he manages at last, "but... I have my boundaries for a reason. I _need_ those boundaries now, if we're going to solve this case. And if I'm going to convince Moira we should keep working together."

There's more, of course, but he can't articulate why he needs to keep that wall his work and personal life – or even the illusion of it, given how Charles has so effortlessly broken it down and crossed between the two. It goes beyond words, back to a time when he'd struggled to keep the objectivity that makes him the detective he is, when carrying too much anger into a case meant he'd been so blinded he couldn't see the obvious. He has a feeling the same is true about love. Charles could ask him to do anything, Erik suspects, and he'd do it, because he's helplessly, pathetically in love. If it had been Charles on the other end of Mayfair's gun, Erik wouldn't have stopped at a simple order to fall asleep.

"We'll talk about this more when we get home," he says to Charles's mortified, blushing silence. He risks a touch to Charles's knee and, when it isn't rejected, squeezes gently, smiling when the sturdy bone underneath stops him from pushing any further. "And I know it was hard, but you were fucking brilliant with your mother. We got what we needed. We'll get answers from it."

"Yeah," Charles says softly, turning to face forward again, watching the house until Erik gets them turned around and headed down the winding drive. "Fucking brilliant."

* * *

Charles doesn't push for the rest of the afternoon; if anything, he retreats into himself. He doesn't totally disconnect his mind from Erik's, but Erik can tell, nonetheless, that he's pulled away again to some place Erik can't follow. It's for the best, Erik tells himself, and he dives back into the case with all the urgency and concentration he can muster, leaving everything else far behind. By the time the day ends, they've made progress, figured out a game plan to follow tomorrow; Charles is the one who finally notices the time and informs Erik how late it's gotten, and Erik comes back up from the depths of the ocean, breaking the surface and surprised by the air.

They head back to Charles's apartment – Erik has a strong suspicion that one of the things Charles needs right now is to be around something that's _his_ , that he's made for himself, full of his own things. Charles is quiet and thoughtful the entire ride, and Erik doesn't want to interrupt his thoughts. He waits until they've made up the stairs and in the door, kicked off their shoes and hung up their jackets, and then he sits on the couch while Charles grabs himself a glass of juice.

"So now seems like a good time to talk about earlier," Erik says.

Charles's back is to him, but he can see the way Charles's body shifts and hear the noise of Charles's heavy, aggravated sigh. "Honestly, Erik, do we have to? I don't understand this obsession you have with this – all you ever want to do is _talk_ about things."

Erik almost has to laugh at that accusation – there is no other person in his entire life, _ever_ , who would say something like that to him. In the few relationships he's managed in the past, he's usually been criticized for going too far in the opposite direction. He says, "I want this to work with us, Charles, and to do that we need to communicate. We need to be on the same page."

"Well, talking is a horrible way to do it," Charles says, using a snotty, bratty tone that Erik hasn't heard from him in days. "It's stupid. It's _awkward_ and _imprecise_ and, and – stupid." His voice falters at the end, landing on the last word with a low frustrated tone. 

Erik gazes over at Charles's stiff, tense shoulders and back. "Hey," he says softly. "Look at me."

Charles does, with obvious reluctance. When he turns around he won't look at Erik at first, instead staring off determinedly beyond the wall, maybe into the next apartment over. Erik waits him out, and when Charles finally does meet his gaze, his blue eyes tired and afraid, Erik offers him a smile. The smile he gets in response is watery but a smile nonetheless, which is something.

"I won't hate you for screwing up, or for getting things wrong," Erik says. He lets a bit of exasperation creep into his tone; Charles, he knows, doesn't take well to him (or anyone) being kind, not when he thinks it's someone trying to accommodate his weakness. "And I won't leave if you do." He shakes his head. "You don't have to be perfect all the time, Charles."

That gets him a long silent moment, in which Charles looks away again, worrying his lower lip between his teeth. He's holding on to the counter, his fingers bled pale where his grip has flushed the blood out of them.

"You say talking's stupid," Erik says at last, when Charles doesn't seem inclined to offer anything else. "Read my mind then, if that's easier. Tell me in _your_ words what you're feeling. I need to know you understand what I'm trying to tell you, Charles. And I won't give up until I know we're okay."

_What if we won't ever be?_ Charles asks, despairing. Erik opens his mouth to protest that, to tell Charles to stop being so fucking fatalistic, but Charles's mind slides silently over and through his, invisible fingers sifting his thoughts like grain. Although it's against nearly every instinct that's kept him whole and safe since his mother's death, Erik holds himself open and lets Charles look and see the shape of the place Charles has in his life and the fears Erik's had to master to let Charles in as far as he has – and what would happen if he let himself think of Charles-the-lover and Charles-the-partner in the same spaces.

It's – frightening. Erik has to admit it to himself, and thus to Charles as well. He doesn't have so many fears left; he's worked hard to conquer them over the years, forced himself to face them, drain them of their power to affect him. But this, yes, this is frightening, laying himself so fully open to Charles's regard. He would be uncomfortable letting anyone see this deep within him, probably, but the fact that it's Charles makes it more complicated. Erik himself avoids looking inward too closely, because he knows perfectly well he's full of faults and dark things. It's something he thought he accepted about himself long ago, but here and now, he wish himself different, wishes there was a better man inside him for Charles to learn and know.

And yet – if it was anyone else but Charles, he wouldn't be doing this. He trusts Charles; he _loves_ Charles; and if he's going to demand Charles's inner self, if he wants to be able to see Charles at his most soft and vulnerable, it's only fair that Erik be willing to give just as much in return. He can't hold back. He won't.

Erik closes his eyes, breathing in shakily. He can hear Charles's steps, walking closer, even as Charles continues his mental search, and after a few seconds, Charles's hands come to rest gently on his head, thumbs pressing against Erik's temples in soothing circles. As stressful as it might be, there's something unexpectedly calming about Charles's presence in his mind. Like an affectionate whisper he can't make out the words to, or a soft breeze on a sunny day.

He knows as soon as Charles has found what he's looking for, because that presence – there's no better word for it, not that Erik can find – seems to pause, uncertain, and then slowly retreat, stroking a soft goodbye against the walls of Erik's mind as it leaves, until Erik is alone again in his head, more or less, only the usual more subtle connection still sparking between them.

Erik opens his eyes again and looks up at Charles.

Charles says, "I think I understand." He drops his hands, but Erik catches them in his own before Charles can move away. 

"I want to be what you need," Erik says. "I just..."

"You have needs, too," Charles says, sounding a little sad.

_I can't be what you need_ , Charles says when Erik doesn't say anything, too caught by the regretful smile touching the corners of Charles's mouth and the quiet way he's spoken. _I don't know how, I don't know – I don't know how you think I could._

"You don't have to know how," Erik sighs. He runs a thumb over the back of Charles's knuckles, the bumps running one-two-three-four. Charles's fingers flex in his as if he's uncertain whether to hold on or pull away; Erik doesn't give him a chance and tightens his grip. "You don't have to run when you get it wrong, Charles. Hey," he leans to catch Charles's gaze and bring it back to him; Charles's eyes track with his, reluctantly, "You don't fucking... you don't have to be afraid I'm – what do you think I'd do? What did I do today when you asked me to fuck you tonight?"

"Nothing," Charles admits shakily. He bites his lip again, and Erik catches a glimpse, maybe involuntary, of how Charles had spent all day _expecting_ Erik to do something. Behind it lie other images Erik can't quite parse out, tangled threads of memory that suggest for a long time Charles lived only to please, to get things right on the first try. The boy who doesn't give a fuck what other people think is a new invention, created when Charles decided it was run away from home or lose himself.

"And I won't do anything," Erik says. "Look again." He nods encouragingly when Charles gives him a look of flat disbelief, and when the light touch on his mind doesn't change, he brings Charles's fingers to his temple.

_Have you ever known something is true, but you can't accept it? You can't allow yourself to believe it, where it counts?_ Of course he does; Erik spent his teenage years knowing his mother was gone, feeling the rage and pain of it every day, but still fell asleep to the conviction she would come and find him and bring him home. _This is the same. I – it's not you, Erik._ Charles snorts for the triteness of the sentiment. _It's me. I can't believe you won't be angry with me when I fuck up again._

"I can't promise I'm never going to be angry with you," Erik says. Anger is a part of him, sunk way down into his bones. If he understands the reasons Charles runs, it's because he's had to learn to protect himself, too, learned to seek refuge in his instincts. "I probably will sometimes. It sucks, but that's who I am. What I can promise you, though," and he takes a deep breath, squeezing Charles's fingers, "is that me being mad at you doesn't mean I stop loving you. It doesn't mean I leave. It doesn't mean you failed."

Charles lets out a shuddering sigh; Erik suspects he's trying not to cry. 

"This afternoon – you didn't know. Now you do," Erik says. He's still trying to find the words to explain what he means, and he's sympathetic, now, to Charles's whine earlier: words _do_ seem inadequate, nothing managing to express what he feels, what he wants Charles to know. "It's okay to fuck up sometimes. We're both going to make a lot of mistakes." _My life is better with you in it_ , he ends silently, and he can't stop the pleading edge he knows attaches itself to the thought.

He stares up at Charles, waiting for him to respond. Instead, Charles closes his eyes, leans forward to kiss the center of Erik's forehead.

_I do love you, too_ , Charles says. _I think you must know that._

_Still, it's always good to hear_ , Erik replies, and he can feel Charles's mouth curve into a smile against his skin.

_It's things like that that make me wonder why, you jerk._

"Well," Erik says, "I can't say for sure, but I have it on fairly good authority that you're rather fond of my cock."

"It's a good thing I'm so _fond_ of it, considering everything else I have to put up with." Charles steps back, but it's so Erik can see him grinning, something sly and delighted that illuminates Charles's face.

He remembers the first time he'd seen Charles smile like this, not the sweet smile he uses to twine the rest of the department around his little finger, not the soft, sympathetic one he gives to witnesses or victims' families when they go to dredge up old pain. It had been a few weeks into the Siobhan Durham investigation – this is how Erik measures time; by case – and they'd been going through a list Elise Carrey, the best friend, had given them of Lewis Mayfair's other _dalliances_. Charles had noticed a pattern, that Mayfair had slept with six of Siobhan's friends and colleagues, and that it had been part of his strange obsession with her – as if, by having sex with the people she'd hugged and touched and talked to, he could have sex with her. It was a pattern that had been fragmented across the memories of several people who'd known Siobhan, broken enough that the first detectives hadn't put it together. But Charles had, and that realization had had him declaring truce long enough to turn to Erik with a smile and a happiness that had done something cruel to Erik's heart, because it had caught him and held him and made him think _I want to see that on his face again_.

"So," he says to cover himself, although Charles is wincing in embarrassment, "I haven't got any other redeeming qualities? Or do you just keep me around for my dick."

"You have some," Charles allows. "You have a nice chest, too. And your ass is more than acceptable."

He sways into Erik's space, permits Erik to let go of his hands in favor of palming his hips, tugging him close so Erik can nuzzle at his belly and Charles's fingers can settle in his hair, stroking tentatively.

_You make me feel safe, even when I'm afraid of it_ , Charles says. There's a sense of what that means, Charles lying in Erik's arms, thinking he could be content and happy, terrified of the possibility but hoping for it all the same.

It makes something in Erik's chest swell with – what? Pride? Tenderness? His own luck? All of them, maybe. There's a little bit of anger there, too, still, that Charles's life to this point has made it that hard for him, but that's something they've gone over again and again, and it's something Charles won't thank or appreciate him for thinking about. He pushes the thought away as he dips his thumbs over the waistband of Charles's jeans, scraping his nails against the flesh.

Charles whispers, "Is that enough talking for now?"

"I don't know," Erik says, considering. "I like it when you talk to me. Telling me what you like, what feels good, what you want me to do."

Charles makes a noise that's halfway to a laugh. "Didn't we already cover what I want you to do?" he says. "Wasn't that what started this whole thing?"

_Humor me_ , Erik says. He closes his eyes and bites lightly at Charles's stomach through his shirt, appreciating the way it makes Charles jump.

"Erik – " Charles says; there's a hesitance in his voice that catches Erik by surprise, and he raises his head quickly, backing up from Charles's body so they see each other's face. He keeps one of his hands on Charles's hip, though, keeping them connected skin to skin.

"What?"

Charles sucks in his lower lip, worrying at it with his teeth. "I don't want – I can't beg you for it. You can't ask me to do that."

Erik sits back a little. He can too easily imagine what's happened the other times Charles has begged for something.

"I don't – I wouldn't," he says, and hopes Charles can hear the conviction in the words. A bit of annoyance tries to pick at him, Charles overreacting _again_ , but he ignores it, latches on to memories of Charles demanding, urging him on and how he'd tried to pull every last bit of pleasure out of Charles's body just for the rush of looking and feeling Charles when he's lost and unfettered and ecstatic. "I'm not a telepath, Charles, I need you to tell me, or show me, what you like. What you want me to do to make you feel good."

_This is why talking is stupid_ , Charles sends, the words mournful and exasperated. _I don't understand you half the time._

Privately, Erik's sure Charles understands him better than almost anyone else. He's known Moira almost since he started with the force, since before she made captain, and Logan for not quite as long. Moira knows him best, but it took her years to work him out. Charles has needed barely a month. The fear that lives deep down, in the place he doesn't acknowledge, stirs: that Charles _will_ see him and understand him fully, and will see that Erik isn't, at his most basic level, a good person. Erik's long since accepted what he is, but it's another thing entirely to see that awareness and distrust on Charles's face.

"If I do something you don't like, stop me," Erik says. He sends along a picture of Mayfair to show Charles what he means. "I'd never ask you just to... to roll over and take only what I want to give you, Charles. Or to pretend that you're only there to be something for me to fuck."

"That's what I was _trying_ to do," Charles says, and Erik can see and feel a flash of that same annoyance Erik just had to push away. "Telling you what I like and don't like. Using my stupid words." He makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat, then sends, _I know you wouldn't do those things or I wouldn't be with you at all. And if you ever did, I wouldn't just lie back and think of England, either._

"Well... good," Erik says. Uncertainty is an unfamiliar feeling for him, and an uncomfortable one. He hates this sensation of not knowing where the path in front of him is solid and where it might be littered with traps. Mentally, he feels drained from this conversation, like the only words left in him are easy, shallow, unimportant ones. He slips the hand on Charles's hip up and under his shirt and hopes that perhaps the touching will be enough to express to Charles what he needs to.

Charles sighs and then he's pulling Erik to his feet. He wraps his arms around Erik, burying his head in his shoulder, and clings to him, the entire length of his body. Erik strokes his hand down Charles's back and down to cup the luscious curve of his ass.

_I know I'm high maintenance_ , Charles says, dryly mocking in a way that's mostly aimed at himself, and not at Erik at all. _But I don't want you to have to be careful with me._

"I don't mind," Erik says, halfway into Charles's hair. It's almost entirely true, because any and every difficulty is worth it, so many times over. And Charles – he wants Charles to have somebody to care for him. He wants to be that person.

_Oh, darling_ , Charles thinks fondly, _that's not what I meant_. He sends a wordless thought that makes Erik shakes a little: it's sweat and come and moans, it's Charles's memories of Erik's body, his strength, the force of him as he fills Charles up and rips him apart.

"Fuck," Erik mutters. That gets him a laugh and a _that's what I've been trying to say for the better part of this afternoon_ , and Erik squeezes Charles ass, quick and sharp, in reprimand. Charles twists away in protest, but the movement pushes him up into Erik, his belly brushing against Erik's cock. Mind already hazy, he thinks maybe talking _is_ overrated, that the give and take of bodies is a much more straightforward conversation – no misunderstanding what Charles wants when he arches against Erik, or what Erik wants when he cups Charles's ass or goes to his knees or pushes Charles on his back.

But – it won't solve anything. Sex between them, for all its honesty, is a kind of hiding. He pulls back a little, still keeping Charles close, but enough that he isn't flattened all up against the intoxicating length of his body. Charles makes an aggravated noise and moves into the space Erik's left vacant, fingers sneaking up Erik's shirt to play across his back, settling in the hollow at the base of his spine.

_Listen_ , he says, not quite sure if he's demanding or just begging. Charles looks up at him with bright blue eyes, a knockout one-two punch. Erik pulls in a breath and continues out loud, hoping Charles can hear all the unspoken things, "Whatever you want, _tell me_. And whatever... whatever you want to do to me, just ask. It's that simple." _I probably won't say no. I'll almost always say yes to you._ "It isn't about you showing how much you need something, so I can hold it over you. It isn't about me getting off on having power over you or making you feel or pretend to feel helpless," although being with Charles is the biggest head-rush of his life, being with someone with so much raw power, "it's about making sure you love it as much as I do."

There's something simple, he suspects, at the heart of it – that they both just enjoy themselves, that it's work but they can do it together, they've _done_ it without thinking about it – but the path to get there is a maze. He watches quietly as Charles navigates it.

_I like it when you fuck me_ , Charles sends at last, leaning up in his toes to kiss Erik, his mouth a chaste pressure to contrast with the words that ring in Erik's head. _I like it when I tell you to fuck me harder and you do. I like it when you think about how tight I am and how you can't get enough, how you'd fuck me for hours if you could, if I'd let you._

_I do, I would_... It takes a good deal of Erik's control not to just buck against Charles at the words, clutch him closer and tighter so Erik can rub his hard cock against him. Erik lets out a breath instead. "Good," he says, "that's good," and he leans down to kiss Charles, settling him back down firmly on his feet.

Charles melts against him, boneless and pliant, his relief blossoming through Erik's mind. _Now, will you...?_

Erik tamps down his desire, one more time, long enough to get out the rest of what he needs to say. It still counts, he thinks, even if the words are breathed out in between his desperate sucks on Charles's upturned neck. "This isn't over," he manages. "This conversation. It's something we're going to need to work on, again and again."

_I know_ , Charles sends. Erik is impressed by how steady his mental voice is, when out loud, Charles's sounds are more akin to whimpers than anything else, and his blunt nails are doing their best to dig into Erik's back while he begins to rub against Erik's thigh. _But surely that's enough for tonight? This is what I want._

It _is_ progress, and that's what they need, isn't it? It's one of the things Erik has been trying so hard to get Charles to believe, that this is something solid and real, not something that is going to disappear. That they have time for all of this. That when Erik imagines his future – tomorrow, next week, next month, spiraling further and further out – he imagines Charles in it.

He sends out a vague thought of gratitude to Charles, letting him know that he appreciates how hard it is for Charles to open himself like this, that he knows what it took out of him. And then he kisses Charles again, swallowing Charles's sigh as he takes Charles's mouth.

When Erik breaks the kiss, Charles seems dazed; he stays like that, eyes closed and mouth tilted up and barely open, for a few seconds before blinking up at Erik in confusion. Erik smiles down at him, stroking a lock of hair off of his face. _Here, like this_ , he offers, and he helps Charles turn around, so their bodies are pressed together back to chest. Charles leans back, letting Erik support his weight; his ass is snug against Erik's hard cock even through the layers of fabric that separate them. Charles rests his head against Erik's shoulder, stretching out his neck to give Erik access, which Erik takes full advantage of, even while he uses his ability on Charles's buttons and zipper.

When he's got Charles's cock out, free to the air, he stares down the length of Charles's body. It fits in his hand perfectly, he thinks. He's surprised at how aroused Charles seems to be already, when they've only just started, but he can't argue with the way Charles shakes against him or the amount of precome continuing to slick up his lovely dick. 

"I could get you off right now," Erik says, "and then fuck you until you're hard and make you come again. Is that okay?"

"Yes," Charles gasps. "Oh god, yes, do it."

There's no way to do that standing here, or not do it and have it be comfortable for both of them, but when he tries to pull away, to suggest they go to bed, Charles whines and fumbles at Erik's shirt to grab him and hold on. _Keep going_ , he orders, hips working back and forth and rubbing his ass against Erik's dick, _I don't want to wait._

"Impatient," Erik murmurs, which gets him a _fuck you_ , and wraps his hand, tight and wet, around Charles's cock, which gets him a moan and an eloquent corkscrewing of Charles's entire body as he works himself into Erik's fingers. Erik sets his lips and teeth against the humid curve of neck presented to him and begins to suck, tasting salt and the erratic, powerful throb of Charles's pulse beneath the skin. Through half-shut eyes he watches Charles's cock slide in and out of his grip, the head bumping against Erik's fingers and painting them with sticky-slick fluid.

When Erik tightens his fingers one last time and speeds up his strokes, Charles's desperate grip on him tightens and his mind rises to a clamor of pleasure and desperation, a demand for more _yes harder faster oh god so close_ and it's the stray brush of a thumbnail across Charles's cockhead that does it. His orgasm ricochets between them, Charles whimpering and crying softly with it, sounds that Erik takes and swallows as he bends to kiss that open, bitten-red mouth. He has come all over his fingers and he rubs it gently as he urges the last few drops of spunk from Charles, who breaks away to stare down at himself as if in disbelief.

_Perfect_ , Erik thinks, and it's true, for all it makes Charles roll his eyes most of the time. At least Charles is lost and unsteady in his afterglow, trusting his weight to Erik to support, and beyond criticism. _Let me_ , he says, making it a quiet order, as he tugs Charles's jeans off and extracts him from shoes and socks. Charles moves as if he's in a dream, his thoughts a silent, contented hum even as he thinks _What about you?_ at Erik.

"My turn next." He's so hard he almost can't think, the elation of getting Charles off almost enough to make him come all on its own. But this needs a bed, and he needs to wait, and it'll be worth it, a long, slow fuck as he buries himself in Charles over and over again, drawing it out so good for the both of them.

He tugs Charles around to face him and kisses him once he's got him there, their mouths sliding perfectly together, Charles lazy and slow but drugging all the same. Erik slides his hands around the bare, sleek curve of Charles's ass and pulls Charles up off the floor, and Charles cooperatively wraps his legs around Erik's hips to support himself, arms going around Erik's neck and never breaking the kiss, not once.

His intention is to carry Charles to the bedroom, of course, but it's so difficult to concentrate on the greater goal when Charles insists on being so _distracting_. Halfway through the hallway he stops to slam Charles up against the wall. It's easier like this, with the wall to brace them both against, and he can rut up against Charles almost mindlessly, using his hands on Charles's ass to shove him back down against his clothed cock, over and over, drowning in the broken noises that escape Charles as he kisses away every one of them.

"Wait," Charles breathes, tearing his mouth away from Erik, projecting reluctance even as he does it. "Erik, wait, need you inside me, you promised – "

It takes an immense amount of willpower to stop the movement of his hips. He has to lean forward, resting his forehead against the wall above Charles's shoulder, while he takes in deep breaths, calming himself down. Charles's hands stroke down his back gently, attempting to soothe rather than ratchet him up further. After a minute Erik takes a step back, slowly lowering Charles back to the ground, onto Charles's own unsteady feet.

"Your condoms are in the bathroom, right?" he says, and Charles nods. "Okay. I'll go get them, and you – you go to the bedroom. Will you start getting yourself ready for me?"

Erik loves the way Charles blushes. It's unwilling, and it's misleading, something soft and young about Charles when he works so hard to make himself tough. The flush goes all the way down to his upper chest, covering up the patterns of his precious freckles. Charles nods again, no words, and he lifts himself up on his toes one more time to kiss Erik firmly, controlled in a way that contrasts wonderfully with his appearance, before he turns around and disappears through the bedroom door.

In the bathroom, Erik takes a moment to run the sink, splash a bit of cold water on his face. It does the trick, bringing him back into himself a little further. He grabs the entire box of condoms – surely it makes more sense to keep them in the bedroom, anyway – and a towel, too, to set on the bed and spare the sheets the mess that he hopes they're leading to. 

He stares at his reflection in the mirror, wild-eyed and rumpled. It's not a sight he's used to, or if he sees it he has gunshot residue on his face and maybe blood. There's none of that, only his lips – normally thin – chafed and swollen from Charles's mouth and his hair all out of order from his fingers, and water dripping off his chin to splash on the Formica countertop. His heart's beating like it wants to gallop out of his chest and his entire body thrums with promise. His dick is an obscene bulge in the polished, fine fabric of his trousers.

_Erik_ , Charles sends, and his name in Charles's voice, spoken or telepathic, gets him hot, pulls every cell in his body to attention. There's some property of Charles's abilities that lets him weave pictures and sensations in with words, and Erik's name is rich with meaning: anticipation, a picture of Charles splayed across his bed with two fingers in his own ass, heat and a lazy satiety and, god, a memory of what it's like having Erik moving in him.

The work he's put into calming down is almost shot. Erik strides into the bedroom, has to take a breath when he sees for real what Charles has already shown him.

Charles is contorted, a poem of elbows and angled hips and spine, to get three slick fingers in his ass, looking over his own shoulder, awkward as it is, to watch his wrist working as he fucks himself open. He's pale skin that glows softly in the light from one yellow-bulbed lamp, freckles spread out like galaxies across his shoulders and arms. His ass – Erik wants to laugh but can't because god help him, it's hot – has lube splattered across it, and it's even more perfectly round and promising as it dimples under Charles's ceaselessly-moving fingers. When Charles looks up at Erik it's with a grin that's pure heat and wickedness and Erik can't _stand_ it.

He drops the towel on the bed, the box of condoms on one pillow. He pulls his clothes off because he wants to feel Charles all over him, as much of his damp, naked skin as he can, wants to feel them both sweat-slick and moving together. Charles licks his lips to see Erik's cock standing hard and erect between his legs, already leaking, and thinks _I want you in me. Now, please. I'm quite ready._

"On your side," Erik murmurs, running an appreciative palm down Charles's ribs and flank and hip as Charles positions himself. His ass is all over slick and some of it's spilled down his thighs, enough to gather and run over the condom once he gets it on. Charles is so open, taking Erik's own fingers easily and moving impatiently on them, and there's nothing to do but gather Charles close, get one hand between them, grip his own cock and guide himself inside.

He pushes in, an easy glide, until he's buried all the way inside. He rests his hand low on Charles's belly, firm against him, as he begins to move. He can feel it like this, the way his thrusts echo through all of Charles's body. Charles places his hand on top of Erik's, holding him there.

"God, Erik," Charles breathes, "feels so good, feel so full."

Erik closes his eyes, nuzzling the back of Charles's neck, his soft wild mess of hair. Underneath the sweat and what else has accumulated from the day, Erik realizes, he can smell his own soap and shampoo on Charles, from Charles bathing at his apartment these last two days, and that realization feels _right_ , sparks something possessive deep within him. He can't help but groan, the satisfaction of the feeling spreading through him – his, his, Charles is _his_ – even as he tries to fight it. _Too much, too far, push it away, Lehnsherr, you know better, if there's one thing the kid will hate you for, it's threatening his independence..._

He can't hide the thoughts from Charles, though, however much he wants to. Not like this, not when they're so connected and so open to each other.

Charles shudders as a wet breath breaks out from him. _It's okay,_ he says, _Erik, it's okay_. He twists, a little awkwardly, to tilt his head back so they can reach each other to kiss. It has the side effect of changing the angle of his hips, too, as he screws his ass back against Erik. Erik takes the wordless demand, giving it to Charles harder, though he doesn't change the tempo. 

_Slow and steady_ , he tells Charles, as he tugs Charles's lower lip between his teeth. _Want to make this last for you._

Charles groans, pulling away from the kiss. He guides Erik's hand from his belly, down to his cock, which though it isn't yet hard again, is beginning to stir. He reaches back with his own hand, placing it on Erik's naked hip, fingers digging into the flesh and bone, hanging on as Erik moves inside him.

Erik remembers what Charles told him, back in the living room. He kisses Charles's shoulder and says, "You feel so good, Charles. So fucking tight, so hot. Can't believe you let me do this. Fuck you forever if I could – "

"You can." The words are shaky; if he leans up, Erik can see that Charles's eyes are shut tight. "I, Erik, please let me – "

"Whatever you want," Erik manages. "Anything."

He can't say what Charles does. Deep down in his brain there's a shift, something sparking, and then the quality of his pleasure changes. He's still hard, still lit up with the feeling of being held in Charles's body, feeling the slick, hot clench of it, but he no longer has to come _right now_ from the friction and pressure and the heady disbelief that he can have Charles like this. The ache between his legs backs off; it's still there, but terminal, something he might die of but he'll be dying endlessly. He isn't coming, not while Charles has that part of him pinned down. He has to fuck Charles as long as Charles wants it, as long as he needs to get hard and come again.

It means he can slow, at least, to long, languid thrusts. He can hold himself in deep, feeling Charles's body flexing and throbbing around him, feel his balls snug up against Charles's ass and the hot slick between them. He can nuzzle into Charles's hair and kiss any part of him he can reach, they can lick clumsily at each other and he can get a knee over Charles's thigh to grapple him even closer and trap him so Erik can stay buried in him. He can play with Charles's nipples, pinching them until they're swollen and sore and Charles arches so prettily against him, demanding that he stop but no, more, _do it again, Erik, I love it, love you, love how it feels_ and Erik has to comply.

He runs out of words to say how perfect this is, but Charles doesn't seem to need them anymore, not with his delight pouring off him in waves, lighting him up like it's electricity. His thoughts are reduced to a wordless stream of emotions and sensations, lapping at the edges of Erik's sanity and peeling bits of it away until all he can do is stare at a trio of freckles, like Orion's belt, on Charles's shoulder and nibble at them and finally close his eyes and nudge his face into the crook of Charles's neck.

_So perfect, love, so beautiful_. He knows, with Charles's mind threading through his, he's giving Charles exactly what he wants, Erik moving so hot and hard inside him, filling and keeping him filled, stretching him over and over, and part of him surges in fierce, protective triumph, thinking _I'm giving this to you, only me, just me, Charles, only me for you._

Charles laughs – or maybe it's a sob – or maybe it's both, Erik doesn't know. _Only you_ , Charles agrees, and it seems like the words are coming from far away, like Charles has to remember somehow how to form a sentence. _Only you, Erik, there's never been anybody else, never could be._

Erik shakes his head, rubbing his nose and cheekbones against Charles's shoulder blades. _You drive me crazy. The things you do to me._ He thrusts hard, breaking the rhythm, and Charles cries out, something broken and joyous. Charles's cock has filled again, fully stiff and hot in Erik's fist, and Erik slows down to a stop, stroking him in a light, teasing grip for a few seconds before he lets go.

Charles lets out an indignant whine at the loss of sensation; it grows even louder, more unhappy, as Erik carefully pulls out of him and separates their bodies. Charles rolls onto his back, staring up at Erik with a look of betrayal. _What, why –_

"Give me one second, baby," Erik says, leaning over to kiss him. _Trust me; I won't leave you wanting. Never_.

Erik lies down on his back. His cock bobs between his legs, rising up thick and hard, and he gives it a few strokes, pauses with his fist wrapped around the base. He closes his eyes and says, "Come on, then. Fuck yourself on me. Push me down and just take what you need."

For a few seconds, he can only hear Charles's heavy, ragged breaths, and then Charles is moving, all at once, scrambling on top of Erik with a haste that's all the hotter for how ungraceful it is. Charles practically swats Erik's hand away from his cock, replacing it with his own to hold Erik steady. Erik opens his eyes again to watch Charles's face as he begins to lower himself, the intense pleasure/pain of his features as his slick hole swallows Erik's cock, inch by inch, until there's nothing left, and he's fully seated, his ass snug against Erik's thighs. 

Charles leans forward, resting his hands on Erik's chest as he sucks in deep, shaky breaths. Erik places his hands on the globes of Charles's ass, rubbing circles with his palms as he waits for Charles to collect himself enough to move.

He could, Erik thinks, watch this forever, Charles rocking slowly on top of him, his face transfixed and ecstatic. He's flushed and splendid, his lip caught between his teeth as if that small pain can keep him grounded. When he tightens around Erik, Erik groans; when he bends down to kiss Erik sloppy, wet, breathy, Erik shudders and hitches up to keep himself as deep in Charles as he can get. The sensation in his head is past words, an endless thrum of pleasure and fullness and the ache of wanting to come building slowly upward. 

Charles begins to ride him in earnest, working himself off on Erik's cock, rolling his hips and grinding his ass down against Erik's thighs until there's nothing more of Erik to take in and then raising himself, lowering himself again, over and over. Erik fucks up into him, chasing after that heat, and when they slam together Charles gasps and cries out something that might be Erik's name. For a moment Erik thinks he's hurt, they've gone on so long he has to be getting sore, but Charles grinds out _more, harder, again, like that_ and Erik obeys as best he can.

He's strung out on ecstasy, tumbling away from himself, coming out of his skin with it. The only real things in the world are Charles around and above him and Charles's mind in his, and everything else has drifted away – even his anger is gone, burned away by how much he needs this. That flicker of thought unmoors him for a moment, but then Charles leans down and lays himself out all along Erik's body and says silently _please Erik please come in me now_.

The knot tied in his brain loosens and he does, sudden and hard and shocky. Charles tightens around him as his own orgasm comes, sweeping over both of them together and Erik has to get both arms around him now and hold him close as they both rock and shudder through it, Charles's breath coming as sobs into Erik's chest and what's written on his own face, what Charles might be sensing right now through the interference of his climax, Erik has no idea.

They cling to each other as their pulses and breath begin to return to their normal rates. Erik would be perfectly happy just staying like this, but there's other things to consider. Charles makes a questioning noise, expressing his disapproval, as Erik lifts him up and off his cock. He grabs the condom, carefully pinching it as he gets it off, tying it up immediately and dropping it off the end of the bed to the carpet. It's something he'd find disgusting any other time, and he might well regret it later, but any other option would require moving Charles from atop of him, and thus is currently outside the realm of possibility.

He catches a stray, sleepy thought from Charles – Charles pondering idly the day when they've been together long enough to do this bareback, when he'll be able to actually feel Erik's come inside of him, filling him up and trickling down his thighs. He wonders, even, if Erik would use his fingers, fuck his come further into Charles's used hole – or, god, even his mouth, licking out all the evidence of how he's ruined Charles...

Erik makes a noise, loud and startling, and Charles lifts his head up from Erik's chest to give him an embarrassed smile. "Sorry. I didn't mean to send that to you. I – my shields get a little funny during sex."

"I've noticed," Erik says. He shifts, pulling Charles in, arranging them in a more comfortable embrace, before he begins to comb his fingers lazily through Charles's hair. "You haven't – " Erik pauses, looking for the right way to phrase it. "Have you done that before? Had sex without a condom?"

"No," Charles admits. He pushes his head up a little against Erik's hand, like a cat being pet; Erik wouldn't be surprised to hear him purr. Charles adds dryly, "I've just watched an awful lot of pornography."

_I bet_ , Erik thinks, amused.

"What about you?" Charles says. He's running his fingers across Erik's chest, tracing patterns or maybe writing cursive that Erik can't read.

"Mm," Erik says, affirming, "with one girlfriend, in college." Magda was a lot of _onlys_ for him – the only non-mutant he ever went out with, the only woman he ever slept with, the only person before Charles he'd ever said _I love you_ to, the only relationship he hadn't been the one to end. She'd been afraid of him at the end, afraid of the anger that made him up, and thinking back to it now, he can't blame her. But at the time, her leaving had just been one more thing to add to that fire raging inside him.

The possibility for Charles to get burned by him, his telepathy being what it is... When he'd been young, he'd blamed Magda for running, blamed the fear of mutants and essential cowardice he believed lived in every human, no matter how self-professedly _tolerant_ they were. With the distance of age, he sees she'd feared his rage – not that he would turn it on her (he hopes; he knows he would never hurt her), but that it would, one way or another, destroy him and she would be caught in the crossfire. Charles hasn't known Erik for nearly the length of time as Magda had known him before she'd left, but Charles _sees_ things in ways Magda can't.

_You're forgetting I know everything_ , Charles says. He leans up, a sweaty slide of skin, to kiss Erik on the curve of his jaw. It turns into a real kiss when Erik turns his head and Charles slots their mouths together, so neat and perfect. _I've seen you, Erik Lehnsherr._ Charles probably means it to sound portentous, but really, it sounds ridiculous, marred by Charles laughing a bit as he pulls away. _All of you_ , Charles adds, more teasing this time, with a lascivious suggestion that he's referring to Erik's cock rather than his mind. _Of course, your suit trousers hardly leave anything to the imagination._

"You're so fucking hilarious," Erik says. He pinches Charles's ribs, which earns him a yelp and a knee in a precarious place. The only solution is to flip them over and pin Charles beneath him, which Charles allows only with much squirming and laughing indignation and silent accusations of cheating. "If you _will_ play dirty..." Erik says to Charles's mock-complaints, but settles so he's sheltering Charles underneath his body, their legs twined together.

_It frightens you_ , Charles says. Erik goes still, not knowing if this is something Charles means to send or if it's his shields wavering again. _That I'm not scared of you – that I'm not scared of you like that._ He means Erik's anger – he's scared, of course, of what Erik represents, possible dependence, Erik leaving once he works out Charles is too fucked-up to bother with, but the constant-burning rage down in Erik's gut doesn't scare him at all.

"You promised me earlier that you'll never let me hurt you," Erik says. "I'm going to rely on you to keep that promise, Charles. Not just in bed."

"It's not like you're poisonous – " Charles starts, rolling his eyes, but he cuts himself off as he realizes how serious Erik is. His face softens. "Yeah. Okay."

The relief hits Erik directly in the chest, opening up his lungs and letting him breathe more easily. Charles might think he's being ridiculous, but that's all right. He kisses Charles again, lazy and easy, like they have all the time in the world.

Eventually – Erik's not sure how much later – Charles ends the kiss. He carefully pushes Erik off of him, so they're lying side by side on the bed. 

"That was amazing," Charles says frankly, looking Erik straight in the eye. There's a sort of rueful smile on his face that Erik wants to lick away. Charles hears the thought, of course, and he places a hand on Erik's chest, holding him where he is. "God, Erik, I really don't want it to seem like I'm just using you for sex and then kicking you out, because I wouldn't ever, you know that – "

"But you need some time to yourself?" Erik guesses. He draws back a little, to give Charles more space, which just leads to Charles looking more torn.

"I'm not used to spending this much time in the company of one person," Charles says, "and so much has happened today. I just need some time to process."

"Reasonable," Erik murmurs. "You want me to leave, then."

"You don't have to leave the apartment," Charles says. "I thought I would draw a bath and soak and just ... think." He reaches out across the distance Erik's given him, just enough to rest his fingers lightly against Erik's wrist.

"I should go back to my apartment anyway," Erik says. Mixed feelings rise up from Charles – mostly disappointment, but perhaps the slightest flash of relief, as well. Erik continues, "I can get what I need to stay overnight here, and come back. Or I can sleep at my place and you can recharge alone tonight. Either one of those is okay, Charles. Which one do you want?"

"Seeing as you can't bilocate, I guess 'both' isn't an option," Charles says with a weak laugh. "But... maybe we should be apart tonight. I mean, if we come in to work together so many times in a row, people aren't going to need Emma to figure out what's going on."

That's a fair point. While Erik wonders about the competence of some of the detectives he works with, there are plenty of men and women at the station house who can put two and two together and do it on very slim evidence. The truth will out sooner or later – it has to, no matter how careful they are to keep this to themselves – but Erik would much rather it be on _their_ terms, not someone offering their hypothesis about Lehnsherr and Xavier during water-cooler gossip.

"You don't have to leave right away, though," Charles says quickly, before Erik can slide out of bed. "Let me make you a cup of tea, at least, while you get dressed. And help yourself to the shower, if you want."

So that's how, showered and dressed, Erik finds himself sitting at Charles's battered kitchen table, drinking proper English tea ( _the man at the bodega stocks it specially_ , Charles had said while the leaves steeped) from a coffee mug, a chip missing from its handle, with Charles sitting across from him. Charles is in a pair of boxers and a t-shirt that's seen better days. Most of the things in his apartment have, although Charles keeps the battered wooden furniture, the sofa and chair, clean and polished, the creaky wooden floor swept. There's care in this place, Erik realizes, with the possible exception of the kitchen.

"I was thinking," Charles says into his mug as the silence threatens to spin on. "I thought... I could be with you tonight?" He taps his temple. "Not, like, I wouldn't read your mind – I wouldn't have much more of a sense of you than that you exist. Which, I guess, is a pretty big thing, if you think about it. And you wouldn't have to know that I was there, if you didn't want to."

Erik thinks of the times he's felt Charles in his head, an idle presence that's self-contained and very obviously _not_ Erik, but benign. He can't describe what it's like, maybe because he doesn't have the vocabulary for it, maybe because that vocabulary doesn't exist. It's like, he supposes, seeing something in the periphery of your vision: you know it's there, but have no real sense of it until you turn your head to focus on it – it makes up your world, but isn't central to it.

"I'd like that," he says, and can't help the one-two skip of his heart when Charles smiles. He finishes his tea and gets up, sets the mug in the sink. Charles gifts him with one last hug and a kiss – a kiss that, predictably, wanders on, wanders into Erik thinking about pushing Charles up against the counter. "I need to go," he whispers when the possibility becomes too tempting. "I'll see you tomorrow, Charles."

Charles lets him go, though his thoughts follow Erik down the stairs and out the building, fading into a silent but familiar background presence only as Erik makes his way to his car. There's something comfortable about it, like an invisible thread in the air, strung up between them, keeping them linked even as the physical distance between them grows.

Back in his apartment, he puts together a sandwich and eats on his couch, watching the news and then a public television documentary about science. Even that makes him think of Charles, and the strength of his intellectual curiosity; it makes Erik want to roll his eyes at himself, for being so pathetically besotted. 

He decides to go to bed early. That way he can wake up earlier, too, have time for a run before work. He's off his schedule, these last few days – usually he runs at least three times a week, but the newness and all-encompassing nature of this thing with Charles has thrown off his routine. It's not as big a deal as his divisions between work and personal, not by any means, but it's still important, Erik thinks, that he keeps hold of stability, of the things that make up his life as he's organized it for himself. That he doesn't let himself drift too far into rearranging his life around Charles.

There's more than one good reason for them to sleep apart tonight, he realizes as he gets into bed – though even as he thinks it, he misses the weight of Charles against his chest, and even his cold feet against Erik's. He ignores the feeling, though, and it's easy to fall asleep.


	4. Chapter four: Thursday

The day starts out well. He wakes up early, refreshed, and by the time he's finished his run in the park the day's shaping up to be bright and sunny, if still not particularly warm. He has plenty of time to shower, dress, and get his coffee before he heads into work – he's even running early – and on the whole, he feels himself to be in an unusually good mood as he walks in the doors.

The first sign of trouble comes when Logan ambushes him, only a few steps into the building. Erik's good mood vanishes like fog under the sun.

"Lehnsherr," Logan says. He peers up at Erik, eyes narrow under the hedgerows of his eyebrows. He smells, as he always does, of his favorite cheap cigars; the smell's only gotten stronger as his partnership with Frost has continued. When Erik ignores him and continues to the elevator up to their department, he says, "You got anything you want to say?"

"Rain's finally stopped," Erik says.

"Was thinking about Xavier, actually." Logan eels into the elevator beside him, just missing the door sliding shut. Erik's sorely tempted to anchor him to the elevator floor and let him ride the damn thing for the rest of the day; the adamantium grafted into Logan's skeleton would make it easy. Possibly even fun.

"What about him?" The elevator dings as it stops at the third floor to let a clutch of beat cops on, all of them talking among each other, although not too absorbed in their conversation to pay attention to Erik and Logan.

Logan waits, at least, until they have the elevator to themselves again to say, "That you spent the night at his place. He came in early, smelled like you'd been rolling all over him."

Naturally, Logan's primary mutation means he would have, literally, sniffed out something like this. Someone other than Frost and Moira finding out, Erik tells himself, was inevitable; Logan was the logical choice for the next person on the list. Still, he can't help but struggle between panic and anger. In the struggle he senses Charles again, keener, the sense that says Charles is paying attention to him. _Are you okay?_ Charles asks, hesitant as if unsure of his welcome. _What's wrong? I'm not looking, I swear, but there is something wrong._

_It's all right_ , Erik says. _It's just Logan. He knows about us._

There's the mental equivalent of a wince from Charles. _Swell_.

_Don't worry about it_ , Erik says, but he can still feel Charles, vague and concerned, in the back of his head. 

He turns his attention back to Logan, who's watching him as if he finds something amusing.

"Having a good conversation with the boy in there?" Logan asks.

The elevator stops at their floor; Erik reaches out with his power to hold the doors closed until this conversation is over. "I didn't stay over at his place last night," Erik says. No matter how true it might be, it's utterly beside the point, and he can tell Logan is as aware of that as Erik is. 

Logan says, "Are you trying to tell me you're not sleeping with the kid? Because I'm not going to believe you."

Erik sucks in a frustrated breath. "Why do you care? What the fuck is it to you?"

"Curiosity," Logan says blandly. 

Erik glares at him. There are, really, so many different things he could do to Logan's skeletal structure. With his healing, it's not like they'd even damage him for long. 

"You know, I always took you for a cold fish," Logan continues. "I guess you’ve got layers, Lehnsherr."

"Fuck off, Logan," Erik says through clenched teeth, and he releases the elevator doors, restraining the urge to stomp away, walking like a normal person instead. Whatever's on his face must not be nearly as contained, though, because more than one person lifts their head to greet him and immediately stops and lets him by as soon as they take it in.

_We're okay_ , he sends to Charles, a bit thrown at how quick he is to offer reassurance. It's not something he's used to doing; usually whoever he works with is the person who soothes and gentles, while he growls over losing time. But Charles's strange ethics mean he's aware of Erik's moods, not the reason for them, and Erik can already see him, sat pale and contained in his chair at Erik's desk, opposite where Erik sits.

_Do I need to threaten him?_ Charles's gaze moves past Erik to Logan, who's taken advantage of Erik's inability to severely injure him and followed him straight past the desk he shares with Frost. Charles frowns at Logan, who chuckles. For a moment, it looks as if Logan's going to tousle Charles's hair, despite knowing Erik will break his wrist and despite the ominous frown on Charles's face, when Logan rocks back on his heels and grins.

"If you survive your morning check-in with MacTaggert, I'll give you hell," Logan says. "Take care, kid."

He ambles off and the rest of the office – which, of course, has paused to watch – goes back to work. Only Moira's left, framed in her office doorway and frowning. Next to him, Charles is electric with anxiety; he is, Erik notices, clutching the Lockwood file they'd taken from his mother's house yesterday.

"What can we do for you, Captain?" Erik asks as they walk in.

"Well," Moira says, folding her hands neatly atop her desk, "I'd like a status update on the Lockwood case, for one."

"We did have success with that," Charles says. "Or, at least, with the first step. I was able to get the files on Maddy Lockwood from certain... resources the board of the company itself didn't have access to."

Moira's brow quirks, and her smile says she doesn't appreciate how vague Charles is being. Erik suppresses a twinge of guilt; they should have spent more time with the file yesterday, but they'd gone home to see to Charles. "Are you saying that you're bringing Xavier Biodynamics into the investigation? Because if you are, that's a conflict of interest and I'll have to have you removed from the case, Charles."

"No!" Charles says quickly. "We haven't uncovered any evidence of wrongdoing yet. If we do, we will of course inform you..."

_I don't want Maddy's death swallowed up for the sake of headlines_ , he sends to Erik. _I don't want my life dragged into the spotlight. Is that selfish?_

_No_ , Erik says. _You don't owe it to the world to share any of it. You don't owe anybody anything._

Charles takes a deep breath, and nods, looking back down at the file in his lap.

Moira clears her throat, causing Erik to drag his gaze back over to her. "Anything the two of you would like to share with the class?" she says icily.

"Sorry, boss," Erik says. Quickly, he fills her in on the pertinent information from the file, and how it relates to what they've already figured out from going over the old case notes and interviews, finishing up with their next steps. "Talbot definitely didn't share everything he knew with the police," Erik adds as he winds down.

"All right." Moira nods. "Make sure to keep me in the loop on this. And – I need both of you to keep your heads in the game on this. I need you focused, do you understand me?"

Beside Erik, Charles fidgets, begins to say something but stops himself almost immediately.

"Yes, Charles," Moira says, sounding impatient, "what is it?"

"Nothing," Charles says softly, though Erik can feel just the edges of a swirl of emotion in his head, something hot and complicated and determined.

Moira sits back in her chair, watching them both for a long moment, before she sighs. "I'm trusting you guys on this. I'm _depending_ on you to not make me regret it. Don't let me down, okay?"

"We won't," Charles says. He's fixed on Moira, his gaze unwavering, and Erik can't help the pride that flickers through him when Moira finally nods and relents.

"That it?" he asks.

"For now," Moira says, although her tone is softened from its usual brusqueness. "I want another status report tomorrow. And you should go track down Talbot."

"I didn't start this job yesterday," Erik growls, "but if I had, that would be great advice." It's part of their usual back-and-forth, Moira reminding him of the basics and Erik being annoyed about it. He pretends to ignore Moira's barely-whispered _whatever_ , also part of the script, and gets up to head back to their desk, Charles trailing behind him.

He's still radiating that strange mixture of determination and, now that Erik can devote his attention more fully to Charles instead of navigating Moira, he senses the determination is focused on Moira and not disappointing her, and on doing everything he has to do to keep himself from compromising _Erik_. It's deeply, grimly protective, and it’s something Charles wouldn't thank him for acknowledging, so Erik leaves him to form his conclusions – he'll challenge them later, if he has to – and returns to thinking about work.

When he gets back to his desk and wakes his computer up out of sleep mode, he glances at the date in the corner of the startup bar. It's Thursday; the weekend’s coming up. He's not on call this weekend, which means he can spend it with Charles, if Charles wants, doing whatever it is people in relationships do with their days when not having to work. They could keep working the Lockwood case, and Erik could bank the extra time and use it for a long weekend after they've got things wrapped up and take Charles somewhere, if Charles agrees to it. They could – 

Shaw.

All other thought grinds to a halt. Shaw's parole hearing is Monday. All at once the prospect of a quiet weekend vanishes, devoured by the fear-fury-memory that rages up like fire across an oil slick.

Deep breaths, counting, his careful compartments of thoughts – it's like all of the methods he's discovered and trained himself with over the years are gone, just that easily, in face of the prospect of Shaw, a free man, in a matter of days. He can't see anything but red before his eyes. He might as well be a teenager again, for all of the control he feels over himself right now. It's like there's nothing else within him, nothing else exists except for this _anger_ , this impotent rage and nowhere to channel it, overflowing through him, bubbling through his veins, _choking_ him –

A hand on his shoulder. Charles's voice, as if from far away: "Erik. There's work to do."

It's the right thing to say. Maybe the only thing Charles could have said to bring him back. The case, Erik thinks, Maddy Lockwood. Talbot. He closes his eyes and pushes, as hard as he can, those feelings back down. Lets the anger grow colder again, back to the familiar ache that stalks him every day. Now do something useful with it, he tells himself.

Charles is fiddling with something at the edge of Erik's desk, not looking his direction. Erik can't feel him inside his head, either; Charles giving him some space, some distance while he works through the inferno inside him. 

"All right," Erik says, and Charles's eyes dart up to meet him. Erik ignores the concern on Charles's face as he continues. "Let's find Talbot."

He's not particularly challenging to track down. They discover he's moved out to Connecticut, but he still works in the city as a therapist, seeing patients in his office uptown three times a week. 

Talbot is, somehow, less alive in person than he is on the headshot posted on his practice's website. He's gray and on his way to late middle age, an ungraceful fifty-two. His secretary, who'd let them in, has Craigslist open in her browser window and, Erik sees by craning his head a little, she's got her resume minimized on her taskbar. The lobby and office, like the two people who inhabit them, seem to have given up, the furniture once expensive but now almost a decade out of date.

"My secretary said you wanted to talk to me," Talbot says. He rises to shake their hands and sits down heavily. "You have to know if it's in relation to a client, I can't break confidentiality."

"Unless they present a threat to themselves or others, or you have reason to suspect abuse. You do still treat children," Charles says. Erik glances sharply at him; usually Charles listens, waiting for instructions or surface-scanning the subject.

"I do," Talbot says, blinking liquid, Basset Hound eyes, "but none of my kids have reported anything that would require me to go to CPS. Nor have I seen anything that would lead me to that conclusion. So I honestly have no idea why you want to talk to me."

"It's not about a client." Charles turns away from where he'd been examining a painting on the wall, something flat and unvaryingly white, so far as Erik can tell. "This is a Rauschenberg. Original, if I'm not mistaken?"

Wariness enters Talbot's face, but he nods. "I bought it a while ago as an investment. Back when the practice was doing better than it is... I expect I'll be glad of it sooner, rather than later. Is this about the painting? I have the bill of sale and the appraisal and everything, it's completely legitimate."

Erik almost pities him; he doesn't need Charles's telepathy to know that Talbot is floundering, trying desperately to think of any reason two investigators might be in his office, any reason other than the one he knows is the only true one. Finally, he says, "This isn't about the painting either, Dr. Talbot. It's about your goddaughter, Madeline Lockwood."

Talbot's face goes white; for a moment, Erik thinks he's going to pass out, there's an unsteadiness to the pulse of iron through his veins, everything stopping before it starts again. When Talbot can speak, it's with a hoarse whisper. "Maddy. Did... did they find her?"

"No," Erik says, "but the case is still open, and we've come to talk to you about what you didn't tell the police back when she was first abducted and her parents were murdered."

"I don't know what else I can tell you," Talbot begins apologetically.

A presence has been growing in the room and Erik recognizes it in a way. It's Charles when his telepathy is escaping out of his control and his emotions are bleeding through the cracks, and right now he's dripping anger and disbelief all over. He's lit up with it, beautiful and terrible and transfigured, his mild blue eyes burning and his color up, and Erik would love him like this if it weren't for the fact that Charles is dangerous. Dangerous to the investigation if he oversteps his bounds.

"You can tell us about how you knew she was a mutant," Erik says while Charles simmers in furious silence. "Specifically a psionic. A telepath, according to her records."

Talbot licks his lips. "That's the first I've heard of this." Charles makes a derisive noise. "She was a normal little girl," Talbot continues after a brief questioning look at Charles; either he doesn't sense what Charles is pouring out or he's trying his best to ignore it. "She and her parents were typical humans."

"She was a telepath!" Charles shouts. "You knew it. How did you figure it out, when she told you she could hear voices in her head? When her parents, _your friends_ , asked you for help? So you decided that to help them you'd sell her to people who would run tests on her, experiment on her, _torture_ her – "

"Charles!" Erik barks. He takes Charles by the arm, more roughly than he should.

Charles doesn't immediately yank away, instead just aiming his fierce glare at Erik.

_You're out of line_ , Erik says silently. 

Charles twitches with impatience. _He knows! He knows what happened to her, Erik, I'm sure of it._

_And we'll find out what it is, but this isn't the right way to do it. Get out. Go wait in the lobby._

_Erik –_

_No. You can listen in through my head, and let me know if you have something I need to hear, but you need to be out of his sight. Don't talk to him._

Charles huffs, but he follows Erik's directions, exiting through the office door and closing it behind him, leaving Erik and Talbot alone in the depressing beige room.

Their telepathic conversation has lasted long enough to give Talbot a chance to add a veneer of outrage over his fright. "Detective, I don't appreciate having accusations just flung at me like this – " he starts.

"I understand, Dr. Talbot," Erik says. "Can we sit down?"

Talbot sits back into his office chair, still clearly at unease as he looks at Erik uncertainly. "You said he was a telepath, didn't you? He's one of those mutants?" There's a distinct thread of distaste in his voice, and Erik can feel whatever brief misgivings he might have had drain away. 

When Erik started the force, law enforcement and medicine were the only two professions that still legally required mutants to divulge their status if the subject came up. That law had changed before Erik was on the job for two years, but the restrictions on psionics have always been different – practically draconian, in Erik's opinion. Charles has a card in his wallet, between his state ID and a coffee joint punch card. 

If this wasn't a job – if it was just some guy Erik came across in a bar, or on the subway, or really _anywhere_ else – Erik would have a lot to say on the subject, very little of it polite. But he is here for a specific reason, to get information, and that's not going to help here, so he merely says, "That's right" before diverting the subject back to Maddy Lockwood. "You say you had no idea Maddy was a mutant?"

He doesn't miss the way Talbot winces at the word. "No – I told you, Maddy was perfectly normal. She was... she was a perfect little girl. Bright and funny and loving." Talbot looks down at his hands for a moment. "I never had any daughters myself, Detective, but I loved Maddy like she was my own. I would have done anything to keep her safe, to let her grow up happy and healthy and normal."

There's a ring of sincerity to it, one that Erik can already tell, from their ten minutes acquaintance, Talbot isn't a good enough liar to fake.

_Ask him about a Dr. Hirschfield_ , Charles sends from the other room. He sounds slightly calmer now, which is a relief. _He's trying so hard not to think about him that he's practically blaring the name at me._

"What can you tell me about a Dr. Hirschfield?" Erik says, and he doesn't miss the way Talbot's eyes go wide and stunned before he starts to stammer through a denial of ever hearing the name. _Who is he? It sounds familiar._

_Just a second_ , Charles says, _looking it up on my phone... Emilio Hirschfield, founder of the Hirschfield Institute. Shit, Erik, it's a mutant youth rehab center. Or was; it looks like they got shut down by the government about three years ago. Mostly teenagers, but they claimed the earlier in manifestation parents brought the kids in, the higher the success rate in curing them._

No wonder the name was familiar: the story had been massive, all over the news. There had been talking heads on every channel for weeks, discussing "the mutant problem" yet again, like it was something new. Like the problem was what to do with mutants instead of kids being abused and tortured to change something that couldn't be changed. The people involved with the school had fled the country before they could go to trial to face the abuse allegations.

"I'm sorry, but I really have no idea who that is, or what you're talking about," Talbot says, mostly blustering now; Erik's silence has let him get up some steam.

"You would have heard about him and his associates on the news," Erik says coolly. He'd probably been one of the people who'd been angry at the government overstepping its bounds; the Friends of Humanity and Purifiers had been outraged at what they'd seen as the government's violation of the right of parents to _fix_ their children. "Most of them are in various non-extradition treaty countries now."

"Oh, yes," Talbot stammers. "I saw it on the news, but what that has to do with Maddy, I have no idea. I told you – "

_He's convinced himself she wasn't a mutant, that she was normal_, Charles says, his mental voice crackling with fury. _The Institute started offering tests for the X-gene when it first started, despite the fact that the test was unreliable. But they used it to get money out of parents, and to get kids for their program._ Erik remembers that some of the kids taken, mostly younger ones, hadn't even been mutants, but had developmental delays or attention problems or autism. Difficult kids who couldn't be helped.

"Did you refer Maddy and her parents to the Hirschfield Institute for testing or rehab?" Erik asks. "For that matter, did you speak with Xavier Biodynamics?" He breaks in before Talbot can deny that too. "We know you did; she has a file with Xavier that mentions you repeatedly as an interview subject."

"They never asked me about telepathy!" Talbot yelps. The derision pouring off Charles in the next room is almost palpable. _Denial_ , Charles sends, along with a mental impression of rolling his eyes. "They just asked about her IQ, my impressions of her behavior, why I thought – " Talbot hesitates. "Why I thought she was having psychological problems."

_As a preschooler_ , Charles says derisively.

"But they found out about her somehow," Erik says. It's an effort to keep his own anger in check. "William and Sophie refused to let Xavier have Maddy for further study, but it's not like Xavier would have stumbled on them by chance." There'd been talk of the government funding a mutant detection system for a while, but the plans had been scrapped; the dark days of registration, testing, and reporting had relied on citizen cooperation. "Dr. Talbot, if you profited materially from the murders of William and Sophie Lockwood and the kidnapping of their daughter, you _will_ face charges. I can promise you that."

Talbot collapses in on himself like a balloon with its air let out. Triumph surges out of Charles; he gets up, but Erik orders him to stay where he is. _The Rauschenberg, Erik! He bought it with money he'd got off –_ Erik sends him a mental headshake; that kind of information is on the border of what Charles is allowed to divulge.

"I had... suspicions about Maddy," Talbot breathes. He's even paler now, an unhealthy grey except for the pink lining of his lips. "But they were just that, suspicions! In my practice I'd had a bit of experience with mutant kids," Erik growls and Talbot flinches, "and I'd been... approached by representatives of both Xavier Biodynamics and the Hirschfield Institute about.... finder's fees for giving them the names of parents and children I knew or suspected had mutant abilities."

So much for patient confidentiality. "And so you gave them the Lockwoods' name," Erik says.

Talbot nods miserably. "I didn't just – I _talked_ to Will and Sophie about it, tried to explain to them how important it was. I know they didn't want Maddy to grow up like _that_ , and there were these people who could help her! I thought they would have to see reason..." 

Erik says, "But they didn't, did they?"

"No," Talbot says, almost a whisper. "But I swear, I never – I never thought they'd kill them."

Charles's presence is vibrating in Erik's head, disbelief and anger and a sick satisfaction, all so strong Erik fears it's going to give both of them a headache. "Dr. Talbot, you knew who was responsible for William and Sophie Lockwood's murder, and you chose not to go to the police."

"I couldn't! They – they had Maddy, you know... Even with everything else, that was still the best place for her..."

Erik can't speak for a moment. He bites down, viciously hard, on his lower lip until he feels in control of himself enough to continue. "Did you continue accepting these finders' fees from the Institute in the years after the Lockwoods' murder?"

"Yes," Talbot breathes, and it's as if that last admission has broken what's left of him; he begins weeping, ugly sobs that wrack his whole body, burying his head in his arms on his desk.

Erik hasn't felt much pity for the other Talbots in his life. He feels none now. Talbot cries himself hoarse, heavy snuffles and wheezes that sound like equal parts snot, tears, and hysteria while Erik watches. Charles hovers like a shadow over Erik's shoulder, dark and pleased. 

"I'm going to arrest you," Erik says calmly. Calmly, calmly; that's the only thing that will let him get through this without chaining Talbot to his desk. Talbot is no Shaw, but they're the same, destroying families, destroying lives. For a moment it's tempting to remind Talbot Erik has a telepath who can rip the rest of the answers out of Talbot's head if he wants, and Charles is close to doing it on his own, but _no_. Talbot's all they've got to tie Maddy's kidnapping to the Hirschfield Institute and they need his cooperation. He won't give it if he thinks he can plead coercion.

"I'll do anything, just don't arrest me," Talbot mumbles into his arms. "Please, I have a wife, kids – "

"So did your best friend." Erik pulls the cuffs from his back pocket. "And now he and his wife are dead, and their daughter is gone." Probably dead. "Schools" and "centers" like the Institute weren't closely regulated thirteen years ago; most of them had relied on mutantphobia in state legislatures to get them exempted from formal oversight. Others had used religious exemptions, any loophole they could think of. Eleven suspicious deaths had been tied to the Hirschfield Institute, dozens of other cases of abuse had been reported by the kids taken from the place when the feds had raided it.

_Do you think Maddy was one of the kids?_ Charles sends. _There could be records, we could get one of those programs that ages photos so we could see what she looks like..._ Maddy would be almost eighteen now, a year younger than Charles, Erik realizes.

_Later, Charles_ , Erik sends. When they're back at the station and he's got Talbot booked on obstruction and anything else he can think of, they'll take their next step.

Now, he closes the cuffs around Talbot's wrists and reads him his rights. Charles is standing, waiting, in the lobby as Erik leads Talbot through, and he follows behind, silent and righteous, as they descend down to street level to transport Talbot to the station.

As satisfying as breaking Talbot it is, it's only the beginning of the work to be done; the next couple of hours are packed, processing paperwork, going over his story with Talbot again and again, collecting details, names and dates and figures. Erik's busy enough that it takes him a long time to notice that Charles isn't there, by his side, or at least completely present in his mind – that Erik's walking through this the same way he did his job for so long before he and Charles teamed up.

He calls out to Charles when he does finally have a chance to breathe. _Where are you? What's going on?_

Charles sends him back the location of an empty office, and Erik follows the thought. He finds Charles sitting at a table, surrounded by a great mass of binders, flipping through pages at a quick rate.

"Moira got the warrant for the Hirschfield Institute's papers," Charles mutters, not looking up at Erik while he speaks. "They had a three year old girl start within a few days of the Lockwood murder. Called her Annie, no parents or family listed. They put her intake reason as 'troubled thoughts', which seems like it might fit..."

"Sounds like it," Erik allows. He sits down in the seat opposite Charles and folds his arms across his chest, watching Charles work.

"Ran away when she was eight," Charles continues, "and got caught at the bus station one town over. Tried again three years later and got almost all the way to Boston that time." His rapid page turning stops abruptly, his finger pausing at one line on the paper in front of him. He bites his lip.

"Charles?"

"Pneumonia," Charles says. "They didn't take her to the hospital, just let her die. She was fourteen, Erik. Another six months and that place would be gone."

There'll have to be an exhumation, Erik thinks dispassionately. They'll need to find the body, do a DNA test, see if they can positively identify it as one and the same with Madeline Lockwood.

"It'll be easier said than done," Charles says. His voice is cracking with a strain Erik can all too easily imagine; he ignores the fact that Charles doesn't seem aware that he's read Erik's mind again. "There's nothing in Annie's file that says what they did with her. Logan and Emma are chasing down some other information on... on burials associated with property owned by the Institute upstate, but it came out in court that they... they."

Charles stops talking, although his mind keeps going, racing in circles like traveling through Hell, down and down through its rings. _According to the staff members who actually did get charged, they'd done whatever – whatever they could.... cremation, burial, just... just dumping the body like it was trash, like it wasn't a kid they'd murdered._

"I know." He's seen worse, far worse, done to the human body; he takes the anger and saves it for the fuel he'll need for the next few days. The memory will last longer than that; he'll remember Maddy Lockwood and her parents when the next case comes up, and the one after that, and all the other ones into a future that stops only when he does. "Charles, it's time to go. Moira and the ADA will need the night and tomorrow morning to arrange warrants for the Hirschfield property; it's been transferred to private hands, and we need permission to go onto it now."

"But we need to talk to those people from the Institute," Charles protests. "They're, they've got to be in jail still, right? Or on parole? Either way they'll be easy to find. They _know_ what happened to her, Erik, I'm sure of it, and I can _make_ – "

"No, you can't," Erik snaps. Charles recoils, eyes wide and liquid, on the edge of tears for the first time. "You can't jeopardize the investigation like this, especially if it means new charges could be pending."

"You don't understand," Charles says. He turns back to the folders, running his fingers over the print. "I... she... I have to – "

Erik leans forward, places his hand on top of Charles's, holding it still. "You don't think _I_ understand?" Erik repeats quietly. "You don't think I know what you're feeling right now?" All of the cases he's worked over the years, each still fixed in his head. All his memories of Shaw. Even the foster system – Erik was ignored, maybe even neglected, but he was never actively abused; the same wasn't true for plenty of the kids he knew. He still doesn't know what happened to most of them. 

"I know you feel guilty because she fell through the cracks and you didn't," Erik says, then amends, " _We_ didn't. But it's not your fault. All we can do for her now is bring these people to justice, and the only way to do that is to stick to procedure. We need to do everything as by the book as we can – dot every i, cross every t – because we can't give them one single fucking thing to point to in their defense. We're not going to give them some loophole or technicality to get off on, and if you go raging into their heads right now, that's exactly what they'll have."

Charles nods, slowly, though he doesn't meet Erik's eyes, still staring down at the paper instead. Erik removes his hand from Charles's and stands up. Charles is shaking visibly – just a little, the slightest tremors wracking his body – and Erik looks around, spots his jacket lying on a chair in the corner. He picks it up and comes around to the other side of the table, draping it around Charles's shoulders.

"You're cold," he murmurs.

"I'm not," Charles says, but he takes hold of the fabric, curling it more tightly around himself.

Erik leans over, resting his nose in Charles's hair, breathing in his scent. It's breaking his own rules – they're still in the office, for god's sake – but he can't help it, not right now, not after this day. _I'm tired, Charles_ , he says. _Let's go home._

* * *

The drive back to Charles's place is silent, Charles drawn in on himself, not even the slightest touch of his mind against Erik's, which is disconcerting. When he pulls up outside the ramshackle building, though, Charles turns to look at him and says, "Do you – do you mind waiting? I mean, can I stay with you?"

"Of course," Erik says. "Just make it fast."

Charles snorts, and while he doesn't have his usual spirit, he at least hurries up the stairs, leaving a faint trace of happiness behind. It's bittersweet – and how strange is it, Erik thinks, that he's learning to discern the particular shades of Charles's moods – with Charles still trapped in the day they've just had, but he's looking forward to spending the evening together. There's some relief, too; he'd thought Erik would want the night alone. And, finally, embarrassment, which accounts for his mental silence earlier; he'd had time to think about it and now he wonders what Erik thinks of such unprofessionalism, that Charles had been willing to blow the entire case just to get answers.

"I forget that you're new sometimes," Erik says once Charles returns and has his bag stored in the back seat and is curled in his place by Erik again. "You're very good at being competent and confident, even when you're not." Charles does laugh a little, but it's rueful. "But this... this is the hard part, Charles. I used to think it was seeing blood, death, violence... It's everything that happens afterward, when you have to make sense of it all. And you have to make sense of it in certain ways, to stay inside the law." He doesn't say how often it had been Moira who'd stopped him from crossing the line.

Charles nods miserably, staring at his fingers locked together in his lap. After a moment, his voice comes, tentative but somehow still angry, incredulous, and so sad, _Her parents loved her. They wouldn't let my father's company have her to study, they wouldn't let the Hirschfield Institute have her to fix. They loved her and – and they died, because someone decided that didn't matter._

Erik reaches out, rests his hand on Charles's leg. There's nothing he can say that will help at all; the only comfort he can provide is this connection, the simple truth and touch of another being. 

"I think I should go back to school," Charles says, after a minute. 

"What?" Erik says, glancing over at him. It's maybe not the last thing he expected to hear Charles say at this moment, but it might be close.

"It's only a few more years until I reach my majority," Charles says; he's frowning, looking thoughtful and determined. "If I could take control of the company and move the emphasis... Money's the way things get better, aren't they? Money, and politics. Instead of cleaning up what's already happened, maybe I could stop it from happening again." He's not pausing, waiting for any sort of response from Erik, just barging ahead, words tumbling out as fast as he thinks them. "I'd need a foundation in business, more mutant studies – it'll be hard enough to get people to trust I know what I'm doing, I'm easy for people to underestimate, I'll need to head them off at the pass. I'm sure there are some online programs I could start with, until I'm ready to fully immerse myself in the voices of the classroom..."

Erik has to cut him off, finally. "Charles," he says, loud enough to break through Charles's speech. Charles turns his head to Erik, looking surprised, as if he'd forgotten who he was talking to. "There's plenty of time to think about those things," Erik says, a bit more gently. "You're under a lot of stress right now – it probably isn't the time to make any big decisions."

They've arrived at Erik's building, and as Erik parks the car Charles gives him a faint smile. "I was under a lot of stress the last time I made a big decision," he says, sending Erik over the memory-image of the two of them in Charles's apartment, kissing for the first time – god, only a week ago, Erik thinks, a little stunned by the realization. 

In the silence of the car as the engine cools, it's suddenly easy to see how Charles has already rearranged Erik's life, how the parts of him Erik keeps separate have begun to creep over their edges and mix together. For all his own wariness, for all the precautions he's taken, he sees how Charles has insinuated himself into all Erik's different corners, his influence twining through home and work, Erik's days and nights, and somehow made himself _necessary_.

"Come on," Erik grunts, hoping his curtness will throw Charles off the series of revelations going off like supernovas in his brain. He leaves Charles to manage his own bag and leads the way to the elevator, walking quickly to grab his mail, his power turning the lock of his mailbox and pulling the little door open. Charles trots after him, complaining silently about how some people and their criminally long legs need to slow down, but apparently more interested in complaining than listening in on Erik's thoughts.

It means, when they're both in the elevator, he can push Charles up against the wall and feel that restless mind stilling, Charles gazing up at him with those eyes of his, his lips forming into an _O_ that he has to know by now drives Erik crazy.

"Let me kiss you." He doesn't know if it's a request or a demand, but it doesn't matter – it doesn't matter because, with the words half-spoken Charles is leaning up to kiss _him_ , his fingers sliding through Erik's hair to pull him down. Erik slides his arms around Charles's back, tugging him even closer, loving the soft noises Charles makes, so immersed in the moment and in _Erik_ , and it probably means Erik's a terrible, selfish person that he wants this for the rest of his life, that he wants this – Charles, really, just him – all to himself.

_No_ , Charles says in his brain, his mouth already occupied with Erik's, _you're wrong – you're a good man, Erik Lehnsherr, I swear it._ Charles twists one of his legs around Erik's, pulling himself forward, and there's just the softest brush of thought, vague enough that Erik almost misses it: _wanna climb you like a tree_.

The elevator reaches Erik's floor, more quickly than Erik is prepared for. Charles lets Erik go only reluctantly, and even then still keeps their hands clasped together for the length of the hallway walk to his apartment. Erik's other hand is still clutching his mail; he unlocks his door and pushes it open using his powers alone, though Charles is the one who kicks it shut behind him as soon as they're both inside.

This time it's Charles doing the shoving, Erik against the wall. The apartment's almost but not quite completely dark, and Charles's eyes glitter even in the dim shadows as they stare up at Erik. He wraps his hand around Erik's tie, tugging him down with an iron grip to catch his mouth again. Erik goes willingly.

_Love you_ , Erik thinks, unable to keep the thoughts from welling up, spilling over from his mind into Charles's like a cup too full of water, _love you, love you, love you-_

"Erik, yes," Charles murmurs against his mouth, and he ends the kiss, burying his face against Erik's chest. He's clinging tightly, his arms wrapped around Erik's waist so tightly his ribs are beginning to ache. Erik rubs his palm in circles against Charles's back as he presses his lips to any patch of Charles's skin he can reach.

They stand like that, clutched together, for a few minutes before Erik breaks the moment, tilting Charles's chin up so they can see each other. "I think," he says, "what's called for now is a pizza, and maybe some wine, and some utterly stupid DVD. What do you think?"

Charles nods. "That sounds good."

"You want to go pick out a movie while I call in the order?"

"Okay," Charles says, though he steps away from Erik as if letting air between their bodies is almost painful for him. "Sausage and mushrooms on my half?"

"Mushrooms? As long as they stay on your half," Erik lets him go with a last quick kiss and summons his cell phone from his briefcase pocket.

Charles heads off to pick the movie while Erik calls in their order. After he finishes explaining in detail that mushrooms were strictly forbidden from the plain side of the pizza (Erik considers himself a purist), he hangs up and turns back to the living room, he has to laugh when he sees what Charles has picked.

"It's not what I had in mind when I said _utterly stupid_ ," Erik tells him. "I don't know if I should be offended or not."

Charles favors him with a disgruntled glower. "It's _Next Generation_. I figured you would roll your eyes all the way through a romantic comedy and you'd criticize the fight scenes in an action movie and mock the police procedure in anything involving cops, so..."

"Complaining is what makes it fun, though," Erik protests. He frowns at Charles as he pulls out the corkscrew and selects a bottle of wine from the small rack on the counter. "What else are movies for?"

"Why am I not surprised?" Charles sighs as if greatly put-upon, but the glint in his eyes says he's pleased with himself at managing to draw Erik out. He adds mischievously, "Although I always thought the point of movies was to have some noise on in the background was so you could make out."

"That too," Erik says, and smiles, slow and hot in the way he knows Charles likes, and, abandoning the wine half-poured, follows Charles, who is stepping backward to the couch, his hands held out as if to beckon Erik to him.

He might as well be on a tether, Erik thinks; if Charles is going to tug, Erik will come running, and they both know it. He reaches Charles at the edge of the couch, and he pushes Charles down – or maybe Charles pulls him – until they're lying the full length of the sofa, Charles on his back and Erik above him. Charles's thighs are open wide, knees up and feet braced against the cushions, making room for Erik in the cradle of his body.

Erik heads for Charles's neck, first, which makes Charles laugh. "You're like my own personal vampire," he says, but he doesn't sound displeased and in fact, he tilts his head to the side to give Erik easier access. When Erik nips at the skin there, Charles makes a breathy noise, and he tangles his hand in Erik's hair, as if to hold him in that spot.

Erik closes his eyes, concentrating on the salt-sweat taste of Charles's neck. He runs his fingertips lightly down Charles's side; his shirt is still tucked in, and Erik has to yank at it impatiently until he's got the fabric out and he's finally able to stick his hand up beneath it, get his skin directly against Charles's, feel Charles shake lightly at the delicate touch, half ticklishness and half something else. 

_That feels good_ , Charles says, almost dreamily. _You make me feel good._ He squeezes his thighs, trapping Erik's body tighter between them. Erik's happy to be caught. A bird in a cage, a dog on a leash, a horse on a lead. It doesn't matter, he doesn't care, he can't make himself care, even if some part tucked deep inside wonders if he should. He's not frightened of Charles; what's even more shocking is that he's not frightened of who he is with Charles.

He leaves Charles's neck, eventually, kissing his way up to his chin, to the soft skin behind his ear. He takes the lobe of Charles's ear between his teeth, and listens to the moan Charles produces when he tugs it, gentle but firm. It's different from the one Charles makes when Erik makes his way back to Charles's mouth to tease, light kisses, barely there, before he pulls away again, pushing Charles back down every time he tries to follow. Different, too, than the moan he gets when he finally gives in, and kisses Charles properly, deep and messy and wet.

Charles's thoughts have turned foggy and warm, and they drift through Erik's head like smoke, unsubstantial but unignorable. Erik wants _more_ , but some part of him is still, somehow, aware of the passage of time, and the knowledge that they're going to be interrupted, sooner rather than later, by the arrival of the pizza.

_This is nice, though_ , Charles tells him, his body moving softly against Erik's, little more than an idle shift of hips and his chest rising and falling with his breath. His touches aren't as purposeful as Erik's, wandering here and there, stroking up and down more for the pleasure of feeling Erik out than anything else.

The hunger in Erik settles, enough for him to try to maneuver them into a more comfortable position, or at least one where he isn't half-crushing Charles. Charles murmurs a protest, _I don't mind, if you don't_ , and Erik has to admit he doesn't mind much at all.

They make out in a drowsy timelessness, Charles's thoughts pouring like slow honey into Erik's, nothing more articulate than Charles's enjoyment and pleasure and an affection that stuns and frightens Charles if he lets himself think about it. It does the same thing to Erik.

Finally Charles's always-working brain catches on to the approach of the pizza delivery guy and they separate reluctantly. What he looks like when the pizza guy arrives at his door, Erik has no idea. It's probably disheveled, with his tie loose and collar rumpled, the rest of his shirt untucked. When he licks his lips, he feels the swollen, sensitive flesh, chafed by Charles's stubble and the tease of his mouth. He's also smiling, to judge from the pizza guy's grimace and refusal to make eye contact.

Charles has the wine poured and waiting, extra napkins on the coffee table and plates ready to go. Erik takes a moment to change, shedding his clothes and the day, and is struck, abruptly, as he tosses his shirt into his dry cleaning bag, that this is a thing people do at the end of their bad days. They look forward to the space that holds only one other person, where no one else goes.

There's space for two, where there's only ever been one. This is what it's like to let another person into your life, Erik thinks. What it means to not be alone.

_You're not alone_ , Charles sends from the other room. There's a hint of possessiveness to the thought that makes Erik smile, and he can sense Charles bristling, only half-seriously, in response. _I'm starting the movie without you_ , Charles adds. _You're taking too long._

Erik finishes changing into a pair of pajama pants and a tank and returns to the living room. Charles has gotten more comfortable as well, stripping off his shoes and socks as well as his sweater, leaving only the t-shirt underneath. He's sitting in the middle of the couch, legs folded criss-cross under him like a kindergartener; his plate of pizza's balanced carefully on one thigh, and he's sipping his wine as he watches the TV, which is now turned over to a ridiculous action flick.

Erik takes his own plate and glass and settles by Charles's side. He's seen this movie at least a half-dozen times, so as he eats his attention is perhaps as much on Charles as it is on the film – Charles's slight frown of concentration as he tends to the movie, the way he tears at the pizza like he had forgotten how hungry he really was, the way his throat moves when he swallows his wine. Charles today, brilliant and vulnerable and dangerous and powerful.

"You know," Charles says, without turning his gaze away from the television, "if I actually cared about this movie, I would probably be pretty annoyed at how distracting your thoughts are being right now."

"There's no point in me saying I'm sorry," Erik says, "when you can tell I'm obviously not." 

Charles's glass is almost empty; Erik takes it from his hand and stands up. "Let me fill this up for you."

"Why, Detective Lehnsherr," Charles says to his back, "are you trying to get me drunk?"

"Not on a work night," Erik tells him. Charles grumbles audibly, but still accepts the half-full glass Erik gives him when he returns to the couch. And, after he's got himself situated again and Charles has pushed his plate to the side, Charles curls into the curve of Erik's body, his thoughts settling warm against Erik's.

"You know," Charles says while Erik works his way through a last piece of pizza, "I've never quite been able to relate to movies and television. Bodies but no minds and all." Erik can see why that must be the case, although it's clear Charles has adjusted for his inability to read the minds of the people on the screen; Charles confirms it with _Sometimes I make up what they could be saying in their heads. It can be quite rude_. "But the stories are fun. Or," Charles corrects, since they're watching a truly mediocre comic book movie, "fun to make fun of."

"At least we've moved past the days when mutants were the go-to enemy for Iron Man or Thor to fight." Erik runs a thoughtful finger up the line of Charles's shoulder and neck. "Although... I could always just magnet Iron Man to the pavement, if I wanted."

"There is that," Charles agrees. He finishes his wine. The movement that transfers his glass to the coffee table turns into an elegant reach for Erik's now-empty plate and the remote control on his thigh. Erik's heart quickens, although Charles's anticipation curls smoky and slow around him. "I prefer you as a superhero, though. As long as you don't mistake me for a damsel in distress." 

"I wouldn't dare," Erik promises. Charles places the plate and remote on the table, too, and then leans back again into Erik's space. He leaves his hand on Erik's thigh, a warm heavy weight. "What duties would being a superhero entail, may I ask?"

"Oh," Charles says, "the usual. Fighting the forces of darkness. Standing up for justice and the little guy and all that. All the stuff you already do." He's stroking Erik's leg now, slowly moving to his inner thigh; Erik widens his stance to give him more room, and Charles hums happily. "Only the difference is, I could watch you do it in skintight spandex."

"Hmm," Erik says doubtfully. "I'm not so sure about that."

"Oh, be a sport!" Charles grins at him, even as he moves his hand again. He's outright fondling Erik now, gently weighing and teasing Erik's balls and dick through the fabric of the pajama pants. "It would be marvelous – I can just picture it."

"I bet you can," Erik mutters. "I thought you liked my suits."

"I do," Charles reassures him, "but given an option, I'm always going to go for the one that leaves you less clothed. How does that phrase go? 'Don't hide your light under a bushel,' darling."

Erik shakes his head. "The day you stop making jokes about my dick is the day I know the bloom has gone off our relationship."

"Who says they're jokes?" Charles says. He pushes himself up on one knee, raising his head to administer a brief kiss. It puts his ass at an angle perfect for Erik to reach and Erik places his hand on Charles's cheek, feeling the flesh tense and relax beneath his palm.

"You, on the other hand,” Erik tells him, “should feel free to hide your light anywhere you want. Dress up like an Eskimo for all I care. I don't want anybody to get to see this but _me_."

Charles goes still for a second, and _shit_ , he's overstepped – pushed too far. It's his nature to push, he's not used to being delicate, to taking care. There are places where Charles is willing to bend, where he'll yield and let Erik in; there are places where he gives way but even that giving way is its own resistance; and finally there are places where touching him gets an electric shock and Charles backing away. It's hard, telling where those places are.

"Sorry," he says, leaning back to give Charles some space.

"No, no, it's..." Charles takes up the space Erik's left vacant between them. He kisses Erik again, chaste but lingering for a few seconds, long enough for Erik to offer a cautious response. "I'm not used to it," Charles continues as his sits back on his haunches. "But I – " Charles huffs, abandons his words, and sends Erik a torrent of images and sensations: a visceral thrill at the thought of belonging to Erik, at the thought of letting Erik do the things Charles hasn't ever trusted anyone else to do but wants so badly – and then, creeping in behind the adrenaline and lust, the fear that there's poison hidden in getting what he wants, not that he doesn't trust Erik (he does, he _does_ ), but the fear is there, irrational, worked in too deep to be dug out soon. They're vague, nightmare images of being controlled and possessed, a toy that's loved only so long as it continues to please.

_Ignore it_ , Charles sends. Erik most definitely does _not_ want to ignore it, because for a moment that fear is _his_ , so immediate and real he shudders before it's gone. But Charles is forging through his own uncertainties, pressing _this is for you, just you_ at Erik as he pulls his shirt off and drops it on the floor, regarding Erik with an odd mixture of seriousness and trepidation and desire, a blush spreading down his cheeks and his neck, washing pink across his chest.

Erik pushes down the reassurances that spring to the forefront of his mind, pushes them down as hard and fast as he can. He's told Charles those words before, thought them at him even more; Charles _knows_ how he feels, Charles believes him, but none of it can be solved that easily. To repeat those words again now _would_ be pushing too far, Erik thinks, a kind of pressure and insistence on something he knows that Charles isn't able to give him yet. But like a course of antibiotics, they're in Charles's system now; all Erik can do is wait, let time take its course and hope the medicine will do its work eventually.

He concentrates, instead, on the vision of Charles before him. Charles is holding himself very still, trying to let Erik look his fill. Every time he sees Charles, Erik thinks, it seems like he discovers a new freckle; how long will it be before he learns them all? Or will Charles's body continue to be a new source of wonder, in even that small way?

The blush has increased even more under the weight of Erik's gaze, and Charles's nipples have tightened, hardening into erect little buds that tempt Erik to take them into his mouth. When he looks down to Charles's crotch, his corduroys are tented, discreetly obscene.

Charles is biting his lip, hard, and at last he blurts out, "For god's sake, Erik, say something already."

_Say_ something, not do something. Interesting, that.

Charles swallows as he hears that thought. "I didn't mean it like that."

"Are you sure?" Erik says. He lets his hand slip under his own waistband, taking his erection into his hand, holding it there comfortably.

_I can't see_ , Charles complains, and Erik responds, _That's the point._ Giving himself a small careful stroke, he continues out loud, "You know all the ways I thought about you, don't you? Did you ever think about me, Charles?"

Charles closes his eyes. "I tried not to."

"Will you tell me what you thought about?" Erik says. He says it in his softest voice, as if to remind Charles: _It's okay; it's just the two of us here, you and me; I love you, no matter what._

"No," Charles says, almost choking out the answer.

Erik stops his hand on his dick immediately, frowning. He reaches out with his free hand, wrapping his fingers lightly around Charles's wrist, stroking at the delicate skin over his pulse. "Can you tell me why not?"

Charles opens his eyes again. "Erik, I only knew you then as, as _work_ Lehnsherr. The things I thought about you – they're all way outside your boundaries."

A great rush of heat rises up in him at the words, and his cock jumps eagerly in his fist. His reaction doesn't pass by Charles's notice, either, and Charles's mouth falls open into one of his damnable _O_ s. 

"I'd very much like to see you touch yourself," Erik says carefully, very nearly managing to keep an even tone. He can see Charles growing more confident, almost smug, really, as Erik talks, but nonetheless Erik adds, "If you'd like that, too."

"I might," Charles says, drawing out the _might_ so it turns into its own kind of sly little tease as he traces the metal snap of his corduroys, the zipper arcing over the round bulge of his cock. Erik swallows heavily and Charles smirks. "Or will this be enough for you?"

"Your cock," Erik manages to get out, cupping a palm over the head of his own dick. His breath doesn't want to cooperate. "I want – show it to me."

"Since you asked nicely," Charles purrs. He undoes the snap, the metallic clicking loud and final in the silence developing between them. When Charles pulls down his zipper, Erik hisses, watching the beige fabric part to reveal the widening _v_ of Charles's boxers, his cock nudging up against the placket. Thoughtfully, Charles palms his cock through his underwear, a low, satisfied sigh breaking from him.

"Fucking tease," Erik says, and shifts a bit, adjusting his grip so it's lower, tighter. Charles licks his lips, his own thoughts about Erik's cock drifting through the air, how huge he looks even underneath his loose pants, the emphatic curve of Erik's wrist as he holds himself as if to command Charles's attention. Alongside that is a swirl of satisfaction, that Charles is making Erik hard just touching himself. _Just looking at you_ , Erik corrects, and Charles moans and licks his lips and finally, finally, gets a hand inside his boxers to pull his cock out.

"Do you like it?" Charles whispers.

"Yes," Erik says simply, low and fervent. Charles sighs, his eyes fluttering closed as he moves his grip on himself, brushing his thumb in a slow circle against the head of his cock. Erik licks his lips and thinks _Do it, now, god, want to see you get yourself off_...

Charles smiles. He shifts his position before sitting back on his haunches again, leaning back more to give Erik a better view of the entire line of his body, from his cock up to his exposed neck. He lets go of his cock, ignoring Erik's disapproving grunt, but it's only to lick his hand in a way that Erik suspects is more filthy and showy than it needs to be, before he wraps it back around his erection and begins to jerk himself off.

Charles doesn't hold back, fucking up into his fist with jerky snaps of his hips. His face is molded into a grimace that looks more like pain than pleasure, teeth buried deep in his bottom lip. Erik's transfixed, watching the head of Charles's cock disappear and reappear through his fingers. 

_Aren't you going to do it, too?_ Charles sends, because Erik is still merely holding himself in a tight and unyielding grip.

"Not yet," Erik murmurs. It's a pleasant sort of denial, the waiting, keeping from touching himself—or, even more tempting, Charles. It would be easy to lean forward and suck on Charles's nipples, so far terribly neglected. So pretty, Erik thinks, puffy and pink and surprisingly sensitive...

Charles moans, his free hand coming up to his chest to twist harshly. He tells Erik, _When I turned eighteen, I thought about maybe getting a nipple ring_.

Erik curses. A piece of metal, permanently part of Charles's body, existing for nothing but pleasure; the image is all too vivid. Erik can't speak, but he thinks to Charles, _Thank fuck you didn't – you would have killed me long before this._

_It would have been hard_ Charles lingers pointedly on the word as he pushes himself languidly into his own fist, _sensing that on me, wanting to touch it..._

And knowing that he couldn't, that he'd always sense it there, riveted into Charles's flesh, stainless steel or silver – he'd never have been able to ignore it. He would have gone home every night with his head full of images of drawing metal and skin into his mouth to suckle it, tugging it with his abilities, feeling out how Charles's body had warmed it. He would have thought endlessly about that small, hot bit of metal with flesh wrapped around it, piercing Charles, _in_ him. Erik curses again, dazed by the force of his own arousal.

If he's dazed, then Charles is overwhelmed in it, swamped. He's breathing like he's drowning, reaching for breath that doesn't quite come. He's so beautiful, mindlessly working his cock, which is red and thick and shiny with Charles's spit and precome. He's so close Erik aches, watching Charles's face and body draw tight as the pleasure spirals out and spreads, his brilliant mind overloading on Erik's thoughts and the knowledge Erik is watching him get himself off, that Erik wants to watch him come.

"Come on, baby," Erik whispers. "Come for me, you're so good." 

Charles leans forward, curling in on himself, his head hanging down like he can no longer bear its weight. The only sound in the room is the sloppy wet slap of his hand on his cock and the gorgeous hitching gasps of his breath. Charles mumbles something that Erik is sure is supposed to be a word, but he can't understand it, and Charles tries again, in the safety and reliability of their mental link: _Please, Erik_.

"Please what?" Erik says, but Charles just shakes his head, sobbing out a startled cry as he comes, semen pulsing over and through his fingers, striping him with white, spurting again and again as Charles's strokes gradually slow down and his hand stills, milking out the very last drop from the head.

"Fucking beautiful," Erik breathes, "come here, God – "

Charles is still working to breathe. He shoves himself forward with a great effort, more or less falling on top of Erik. Erik drags him in close, folding Charles around him, kissing all over his face, his neck, his chest, his arms, anything he can reach. He arranges Charles so he sits across Erik's thighs, wrapping one arm around Charles's rib cage to hold him tight. He cups Charles's spent cock, careful and gentle but thorough, loving the startled cry Charles gives him. 

"Are you going to fuck me again?" Charles says, tucking his head against Erik's shoulder; he sounds tired, dreamy, as if he's woken up in the middle of the night. Erik hisses, clutching him even closer. 

"Don't want to hurt you, after last night," Erik says, and before Charles can argue, adds, "and I can't wait that long, anyway, I need you now." He grabs Charles's hand, dragging it down to his crotch, palming it hard against his erection. Charles makes a pleased noise, flexing his fingers around the shape of Erik through the fabric. For once, it doesn't seem to be a tease, just Charles enjoying relearning everything about Erik's body.

_You always feel so good_ , Charles confides, as if it's a secret he's kept close for ages. It sounds new, although Erik's heard it before, heard it spilling obscenely incoherent from Charles's mouth and his mind while he'd fucked him or jacked him off or when Charles has been touching him. _I love touching you like this_ , Charles continues, _taking you apart, watching it happen._

It's too good, hearing Charles's pleased voice in his head, feeling him as he tugs the tie of Erik's pajama pants loose and pulls the waist down, pushes his tank top up so he can stroke the flat, quivering muscles of Erik's abdomen. His hand is back on Erik's, though, not on Erik's cock but _directing_ him, oh god, tugging to encourage Erik to stroke himself and when Erik complies – as if he can do anything else – Charles rewards him with a deep, slow kiss. Charles is plastered all along him, his weight supported by Erik's chest and Erik's arm wrapped around him and it's hard to breathe, but each breath he pulls in tastes like Charles and feels like him, these little pulses of thoughts about how good Erik looks with his eyes shut tight, his lashes fanning his cheeks and the lines on his face that Charles wants to kiss. Charles likes his tank top – more bare skin for him to touch, Erik's heat transmitting itself more directly.

And of course their two joined hands moving on Erik's cock, Charles's touch urging him faster and harder. He can't thrust with Charles atop him like this, but he doesn't need to, not with the heady friction of Charles's come seeping between their fingers and Erik's own damp skin. It's being surrounded by tight, gripping heat, Charles's hand slipping away for a moment to cup Erik's balls, to fondle them and trace the delicate skin around them.

_You're so ready for me_ , Charles says. His hand goes still, cradling Erik, only a thumb playing gently across his scrotum. _Could you open your eyes and look at me when you come?_

Charles is already everywhere in Erik's mind, seemingly filling up every empty space, leaving nothing but his presence and his aura, heady and sweet and overwhelming. It's an effort for Erik to force his eyes open, to not just let himself fall further and further into that void – but when he does, it's worth it, because Charles is everywhere _here_ , too, his wicked bright eyes pinning Erik down, the center of Erik's universe, the only thing he can see.

"Oh, darling," Charles says, and Erik can't help but follow the movement of his lips as they frame the words, the flash of Charles's tongue, red against his white teeth.

_I like the way you look at me_ , Charles says, his voice like a whisper in Erik's head, and he adds his hand back to Erik's just as Erik's orgasm hits, lacing their fingers together around Erik's cock as they stroke him through it together. 

It's the sort of pleasure that's so deep it almost hurts, orgasm like a relief after a long ache. Erik lets himself fall back, sinking down into the cushions, pulling Charles along with him to snuggle close. 

"I think we stained your couch," Charles says, sounding vaguely apologetic, as Erik sighs and licks a line of sweat off his shoulder. 

"Don't care," Erik mutters. He nudges his nose against Charles's jaw until Charles takes the hint, turning his face so they can kiss lazily. 

_You'll care tomorrow_ , Charles thinks, but Erik ignores him, digging his fingers firm into Charles's ticklish side, just for the reaction he knows he'll get, Charles jumping and crying out into Erik's mouth.

_That's what I get for trying to be considerate_ , Charles thinks at him, aggrieved and indignant. He pushes at Erik's shoulder, which doesn't do much; they're laughing against each other's lips, Charles smiling too broadly to be sincerely annoyed.

"You're the first person other than maintenance to be here in ages," Erik tells him. It's true; the last time the building's maintenance crew had been in here had been to fix something Erik's abilities couldn't take care of, the stain left behind after a water pipe in the ceiling had broken. "And you'll be the only other person here."

Charles goes still, settling himself against Erik again. It isn't a worried stillness, but thoughtful, like the line of Charles's index finger as he traces it across Erik's collar bone. He doesn't seem inclined to move, his mind resting alongside Erik's as easily as his body does, for which Erik's grateful. Still lost in the haze of afterglow, he can touch, lingering, proprietary touches along Charles's side and up his shoulder, his neck.

It occurs to him Charles could have taken those words as the sign of someone so essentially _alone_ , solitary to the point of creepiness or dysfunction. Until Charles he'd been celibate because he couldn't be bothered, but at thirty-four that kind of solitude is aberrant. He's heard hints of it when the department has chewed over his persistent refusal to date, or even to be social. Moira doesn't remark on it anymore; teasing him about it hasn't gotten much more out of him except exasperation.

Now, though, he's made _space_. The knowledge settles in him again, as if for the first time. And that space is carved out, very nearly permanent. He remembers Charles's words earlier, about going back to school, taking over the company to turn it into something good, and that space suddenly becomes frighteningly transitory – filled one moment, empty the next, still there no matter what. Impatiently, he shoves it down. There's no use fretting about the inevitable, not when he can steal a few more quiet moments with Charles before they go to bed and the world starts again tomorrow.

Erik notices, beyond Charles's head, the bright flash of explosions on the television screen. He'd thought Charles had turned it off before they began making out, but obviously he had merely muted it instead. Now – aptly enough – the film is reaching _its_ climax, as well.

"You know," Charles says, "when we first started working together, I was convinced you had no sense of humor whatsoever. I don't know if it's better or worse to know that you do have one, and your secret weakness is puns." Erik nips at Charles's shoulder in retribution, but it just makes Charles laugh softly.

They sit, quiet and comfortable, for a few more minutes, before Charles sighs and climbs off Erik's lap. He pulls his trousers back up, but they still sit low on his hips as he begins to move around the room, collecting the dishes and food off the coffee table to transport to the kitchen. Erik watches him, lazy and satisfied, not stirring himself from his position on the couch.

"You're going to fall asleep like that," Charles says from across the counter, as he wraps the leftover pizza in foil.

Erik frowns. "I'm not."

"You are," Charles insists, "and you're going to be cranky later if you do. It's no good for your back or neck, you know. Go to bed."

There's something amusing about it, something unexpectedly domestic, Charles nagging at him like this. Erik isn't sure whether or not he wants to laugh. He settles for rising to his feet, stretching before picking up Charles's discarded t-shirt and using it to wipe up his hands and the couch, which earns him an eyeroll from Charles. "What about you?" Erik asks, and he can feel it now, the quiet languor spread throughout his body.

"I'm not ready to sleep quite yet," Charles says thoughtfully, "but I'll join you later, love."

"Okay." Erik collects one last kiss from Charles, relishing how sweetly Charles opens for him. There's no temptation to take the kiss deeper, but it's nice to linger, to pull back slowly before he heads down the hall to his bedroom.

"I'm going for my run tomorrow morning," he says, "you're welcome to come with me," but doesn't pause because he _feels_ Charles's sarcastic amusement, and his decision that he'd much rather spend an extra hour in bed. _Fine_ , Erik sends, _but I'm not going to drag you out of bed like I did last time._

Charles says something indistinct about Erik's bed being comfortable, and then his mental voice fades out again.

Space, Erik decides, is what's needed. Charles's presence still fills the apartment, not dominating but undeniably there, quiet as he finishes cleaning and goes to see about cleaning the couch. It's busy but not hectic, a pleasant background hum (accented, Erik hears, by the closing credits of the movie) that accompanies Erik as he cleans himself properly and brushes his teeth.

Settling in the darkness reminds him of everything that's waiting tomorrow, a flash of knife-like clarity he has to grasp, separate, and store away. They'll need to get clearance to talk to the handful of Hirschfield staff members who might have known about Maddy – Annie – and wait on the warrants to search the property if anything turns up. It means bringing Charles to Sing Sing and Bedford Hills, his first prison trip. He nearly makes the decision to tell Charles, incontrovertibly, he's not going, but no, that's a conversation to keep until tomorrow. And then there's Kurt's death, lurking in the background; he'll have to be sure Stryker is staying far away from Charles. And then Shaw, always Shaw, Erik's thoughts circling endlessly back to him. Three days now until his hearing, three days to have the rage build.

_Tomorrow_ , he tells himself. He flips the light switch with his ability and climbs into bed. The ceiling is dark above him, a moving collage of afterimages moving across it, deep, electric green and purple. He stares and stares, looking for calm somewhere up in there and, when his eyes slip shut, he finds it.


	5. Chapter five: Friday

Charles is quiet the next morning, thoughtful and withdrawn into himself in the way that always makes Erik curious. But he doesn't ask, letting Charles work through it at his own pace instead, trusting that Charles will fill him in when he's ready.

Today, Charles deciding he's ready happens in the car, shortly before they reach their destination. 

"I don't think I should interview the Institute folks with you," Charles says, voice low. His head is turned, gaze fixed on Erik's hands on the wheel, though Erik doubts he's truly paying attention to that.

Unsure what to say, Erik settles for, "Oh?"

Charles sighs. "I've been thinking about yesterday. I nearly ruined everything-"

"You wouldn't have," Erik interjects, "you have too much control for that-"

"I _could have_ ," Charles says over him, with a frown. "You were right, it's too... This is too important for me to fuck up because I can't pull myself back enough. I'm not like you, Erik, I'm not good keeping things separate and filed away like that."

Erik says nothing. He's torn between the need to reassure Charles and the fact that he doesn't, in fact, want Charles there at the prison, though not for the reasons Charles is voicing. 

After a moment, Charles adds, "If you had told Moira everything I did yesterday, we both know she would have removed me from the case. If you do need a telepath in the interviews, I'm sure Emma can help."

The thought of Emma in a grimy visiting cell, glaring suspiciously at the walls like they're contagious – or worse, will get something on her immaculately white suit – teases a reluctant smile from him. Charles catches the image and laughs as well, although it's not very convincing.

"Maybe I can get Moira to go along with me," Erik says, half to himself. "There's no way I'd get consent from a Hirschfield employee to speak with a telepath present, not if they thought they'd incriminate themselves just by being in the same room with you." He glances at Charles. "But you have to know, I would still want to have you there. I trust you."

"Thanks," Charles says softly. "I – thanks."

He's at the station long enough to collect Moira and see Charles set up with Logan to look over maps of the various Hirschfield properties upstate, and the blueprints from the Institute's main campus in Queens. Charles stares grimly at the piles of paper, his anxiety transmitting itself to Erik, already thinking about how they'll be looking for grave sites, holes in the walls big enough to hold a teenaged girl's emaciated body. Fortunately, Logan's there with a rough smack on the shoulder for Charles and a growling, impatient comment about how they need to get started. Charles seems to react well to Logan's abrasiveness; he squares his shoulders, offers Erik a quick nod and a _I'll see you later_ before turning his attention to his work.

"Oh thank god, I've been looking for an excuse to get out of here," Moira says when Erik asks her if she wants to come along with him. Good human, bad mutant; while Erik hates to play up the stereotype, it works on the sorts of mutantphobes the Institute employed. They like to think of mutants as dangerous, leashed animals. Moira will be there to hold Erik's leash, the reason to Erik's irrationality, and threaten to let him off if the prisoner doesn't cooperate.

Erik can almost _see_ it, the scenario playing out with satisfying clarity, and he's so busy thinking about getting answers, getting _Charles_ answers, and justice for the Lockwoods that he misses Moira's silently considering look until it's too late.

"So," Moira says after she's buckled her seatbelt and reached for her travel mug, favoring him with a raised eyebrow as she gulps her coffee. "How are things going?"

"They're going," Erik grunts. "They'll go faster if the traffic's cleared." The drive up to Ossining is tedious; each trip is as boring as the last. Erik usually fills the rides with silence and contemplating the case, the questions he wants to ask, and usually Moira would too. She knows enough of him to know he has to have work to concentrate on, that this is how he functions best. In the past she's compared him to a hound on the scent, or a shark following a trail of blood through the water, and there are reasons those comparisons are apt.

"I mean," Moira says, "with Charles."

Erik snorts, giving her a sidelong glance. "I – seriously, Moira? You're seriously asking me that?"

Moira's shrug is an easy, elegant gesture. "Why not?"

"There are more important things going on right now," Erik says firmly. "Like the case."

Moira takes another swallow of her coffee. "It's a long trip," she says, not quite flippant. "Look, Lehnsherr, we've known each other a long time, and I've never once seen you take a romantic interest in another human being."

Erik clenches his teeth and manages to get out, "I understand perfectly. You just need to make sure I haven't been covering up my sick fetish for underage boys this entire time, don't you?"

There's no response from the seat beside him. When Erik looks over to her again, the color has flared up high in Moira's cheeks and her expression has turned to stone. He can't tell if she's more angry than disappointed, and he doesn't want to; neither reaction is the one he wants, not from her.

"Is it so hard for you to believe that I might care about you? About your _life_?" Moira says. "That I might sincerely have a stake in your happiness? No, don't answer that. Just drive."

She turns away to stare out the passenger window, and Erik feels as though he's been dismissed as completely and utterly as he's ever been. That's fine. He bites his lip, stretching his power out a little to wrap around all the other cars on the road – not doing anything with them, but just a comforting sense of them – and tries to concentrate once more upon the case. 

It isn't easy. Everything refuses to stay where he's put it, first Charles creeping over his boundaries and permeating Erik's life, then fucking Shaw, and now Moira. He reminds himself he can't help Maddy or her parents if he goes into an interview with all of this hanging over his head.

Ages ago, when he'd been with Magda, the anger had been all-consuming. It had ended them – well, he had, his unwillingness to recognize the extent to which anger drove him – and after that he had learned to harness his anger and to stable it when he didn't need it. When he thinks of the heartbreak on Magda's face as she told him it was over, that she was leaving, he wonders if his anger has ever been as tame as he wants to believe. When he thinks about it finally escaping from his control and Charles being caught in the crossfire, Charles finally _really_ seeing him for what he is... Erik flinches away in fear, even though maybe it would be for the best, Charles seeing what Erik's capable of.

Brant Hodge needs to see it, in Erik's opinion, although he lets Moira take the lead once they're in the holding cell and Hodge is staring sullenly across the table at them. His two and a half years in prison have aged him past his thirty-one years and his reddish-blond hair, cropped close, seems like it covers only skull and skin. Erik pretends to ignore the Purifier tattoo on Hodge's forearm, a blue-black P with an X inside it, even though Hodge has clearly displayed it in hopes of getting a reaction.

"My lawyer says I don't have to talk to you," Hodge says belligerently as Moira sets out her files.

"Then it's a good thing you just have to listen, isn't it?" Moira asks. "I'm sure, considering the twelve counts of child abuse you were charged with – and convicted of – your memory's a bit hazy when it comes to one particular kid, but you can listen to me telling you about her. And then maybe you can help us, and maybe get out of jail before they haul you out in a body bag."

Other than early parole – which Erik bitterly resents – they don't have much to offer Hodge. They'd only caught him because he and a few other low-level technicians hadn't had the money to flee the country by plane. The Canadians had found him just past the border at Coteau-du-Lac and extradited him; the other two, Gary Brockton and Rebecca Smythe, had been arrested at the Institute itself. Hodge knows it; Erik allows himself a small smile, the threatening one, to keep him on edge. Hodge should also know he'd had his sentence extended for trying to flee the jurisdiction. He has far less leverage than the other two.

"You might have known this girl as Annie." Moira pushes Madeline's photograph across the table. Hodge leans forward, hunching over his handcuffed wrists, to study it.

He looks it over for a few seconds before shaking his head. "Like you said, I saw a lot of kids over the years. They all kinda blend together."

"Yeah, I bet," Erik says.

"How about this one?" Moira sets out the next picture, pointedly not acknowledging Erik. This one they got from the Hirschfield papers. The Institute had obviously kept records of everything, with photographs of each child only the tip of it, but what the police have now of their files is only a small fraction of the total that were kept. Brockton and Smythe had both been in the process of destroying as much as they could, tossing things randomly into a fire in the main office, when they were apprehended.

That this picture of Annie is one of the pieces of info that remains is a lucky break, Erik knows. Charles had found it last night, during his relentless poring over the papers. The original photo, taken probably a year or two before her death, was of her and another girl, sitting on a bench outside somewhere, squinting into the sun as if it's too direct or they're unused to the light; it's been cropped, zoomed in, to focus on Annie's face.

Erik can see it easily, the way the rounded baby features of Maddy Lockwood could have lengthened and sharpened into this face, thin and unhappy as it is, framed by the long braid and white cap that the Institute insisted on for its dress code. He has absolutely no doubt that they're one and the same girl. But Erik's gut isn't evidence.

Hodge takes longer staring down at this picture. "Yes," he says finally, sitting back in his seat. "I remember her. She was a troublemaker."

Moira places a hand, steady and calm, on Erik's leg, under the table where Hodge can't see. She knows Erik well enough to predict his reaction to that last assertion; Erik's torn between appreciating her understanding and the innate urge to reject the feeling that she's handling him.

"Yeah, I can see how you'd expect a girl you physically and psychologically abused to be compliant," Moira says. "What do you mean, she caused trouble."

"Tried to escape a couple of times." Hodge glares mistrustfully at the photo, as if expecting Annie to leap out and attack him. "She somehow did her _thing_ ," he waggles a hand while screwing up his face, "and got out. Them mind-benders were always trouble. I remember her because I almost got assigned to chase her down. It was just before the feds busted in with their pro-mutant agenda and Dr. Hirschfield left."

The only thing that counteracts the anger running like poison through him is relief that Charles isn't here – and, maybe, pride in Madeline Lockwood, that she'd used her abilities to escape. That knowledge keeps his voice steady enough to say, "Surely you had runaways before." When Hodge nods, puzzlement (and loathing) stretching his face into a skull-masked grimace, Erik adds, "She escaped twice, nearly made it to Boston the second time. Why chase down one little kid?"

"One less mutant out there the better," Hodge growls.

"You might want to rethink that answer." Moira leans forward on her elbows, her hands clasped together suggesting that Erik's off his leash now; Erik lets the metal in the bars creak softly, loud enough for Hodge to glance anxiously over his shoulder. "Now, why did the Institute want one little kid back if she was so _difficult_."

"I don't know, I was just a tech," Hodge says, shrugging his thin shoulders. His eyes weasel between the photo of Maddy and Moira's face, skittering away from Erik. "All I know is, Dr. Ferenc – she was Dr. Hirschfield's assistant – said we _had_ to bring her back, and bring her back fast."

"I suppose it makes sense when you think about it," Erik says, leaning in toward Moira and lowering his voice a little, enough to aim it to her like an aside, like it's something he's just thought of. "You don't want a kid out there who can draw a line right between you and a murder, do you?"

Hodge straightens up in his chair. "What are you talking about, _murder_?" he spits out. "The Institute never murdered anybody – look, we were helping people who _wanted_ help, we were doing a service-"

"Save it," Moira says sharply, "we've heard that lot before." Hodge gives her a sullen glare, still refusing to look over toward Erik. Erik wishes, not for the first time, that handcuffs weren't quite so tempting to play with. "We have evidence pinning your superiors to the murder of this girl's" – she taps her fingernail on the toddler's picture – "parents."

Hodge is starting to look scared. "I don't know anything about any murder," Hodge insists. "I told you, I was just a tech." He swallows hard. "The folks that died – they were mutants, too?"

For fuck's sake, Erik thinks, disgusted.

"No," Moira says quietly. "They were completely human." Hodge shakes his head, and Moira adds, "What can you tell us about Annie's death?"

"We didn't murder her, if that's what you're trying to accuse me of!" Hodge says. "She got sick, kids get sick, she died. It happens. I didn't do a goddamn thing to her."

"She got sick," Erik says. He gazes steadily at Hodge, who flinches away, cowering into the back of his chair. Erik flexes the metal a little and Hodge lurches forward. "She got sick _with pneumonia_ , according to her file, and you didn't take her to see a doctor."

"We had Dr. Ferenc!" Hodge glances quickly between the two of them, licking his lips with a dry tongue; it makes a sticky sound when it catches against his skin. "She and Dr. Pullman – he was one of the psychiatrists – had her in the infirmary! They were treating her there! And, I don't know, maybe she was sicker than they thought. Like I said, I don't know shit about it. Maybe the other two would know, but the one you should ask is Dr. Ferenc." He grimaces and leers at Moira. "Oh, I forgot, she's where you can't get her."

"You know she died," Moira says, ignoring Hodge's dig. "You worked in the infirmary as a nurse's aide when you weren't on the floor, giving kids their medication. But, magically, I suppose, your ignorance extends to what your employers did with the bodies of the children who died in their care."

"Think very hard," Erik tells Hodge, "before you answer."

He itches to tighten the cuffs around Hodge's wrists, although the metal is flimsy enough Erik's not sure he could crush bone with it. Still, it's a nice fantasy, and the expression it brings to his face is enough to have Hodge shiver and say, "Look, I – I don't know what they did with the kids who bought it. But there's this property Dr. Hirschfield had, up by Catskill..."

"We know about that," Erik tells him. "What about it?"

"Just that, when we had a kid die at the Institute, sometimes someone took a long trip upstate. I went one time, for training. They used that place as a kind of retreat, like, for seminars and parties for the corporate types and donors and shit. There was woods way back a ways from the main building, and this old shack, like for hunting. Brockton liked to joke that's where the bodies were buried. He had a weird sense of humor, thought he was fucking with me. And," Hodge sighs, "Dr. Ferenc went upstate a couple days after the girl kicked it."

"Is that enough?" Erik whispers to Moira. Hodge could be playing them – he hates mutants as much as or more than he fears them – but it's a start, and it means maybe they won't have to search the rest of the land the Institute used to hold.

"We should talk to Brockton, but yeah," Moira says. "I'll call in and see if we can't press that warrant harder."

Things start to move more quickly after that, picking up speed like a wheel begins to roll downhill. They talk to Brockton; he's smarter than Hodge, smugger, careful to cover his own ass and not admit anything that could get him into trouble, but eventually he confirms the story, too. From there, Moira's on fire, phone call after phone call, coordinating everything – handling the warrant, talking with the local Catskill police, the forensic team. Watching her confirms two things for Erik, just like it always does: that Moira's very, very good at what she does; and that he wouldn't take her job in a hundred years. 

They drive the hour up to Catskill, a tiny town that's seen better days and that lives on the tourist and camping traffic that comes through in the summer. At the end of winter it's nearly dead, the trees empty and bare like the rest of the town. Moira directs him to the police station, a cramped building near the main street. While the rest of the town drowses under a blanket of grey, the station bustles like a hill of ants kicked into action.

"Wait here," Moira says as he pulls into one of the visitors' spaces. She vanishes inside for several long minutes, but he's already expecting what she has to say from the expression on her face when she reappears, a mixture of triumph and anger.

"They found it," she tells him, leaning back against his car in the parking lot of the local McDonald's, chewing absently on her chicken sandwich. "Looks like at least a dozen bodies, over the years – they need to go through and sort out all the bones to know exactly. But the most recent one looks to be an adolescent girl, probably dead three to four years."

"How long until they can confirm it's Madeline Lockwood?" Erik asks.

"It's going to be a couple of days, at least. All we can do now is wait."

"I hate waiting," Erik mutters, jamming his hands deep into his pockets.

"Really?" Moira says. "Because you hide that really well." She blows out a breath, pushing a lock of hair out of her face, and crumples her sandwich wrapper into a neat ball.

Erik looks at her, feeling a little torn. "Look, Moira," he says awkwardly, "about earlier, in the car..."

"Are you going to _apologize_?" Moira says, raising an eyebrow. "Is this actually happening?"

"Stop interrupting, I'm trying to say something here-"

"If being with Charles has changed you that much already, well, kudos to him."

He can't help it; he tenses immediately, all over, as soon as she mentions his relationship. Moira notices it, of course, damn her. She lets out a long sigh, shaking her head, and then fumbles around in her person for a minute before pulling out a pack of cigarettes and a matchbox. She hands one cigarette to Erik and keeps the other one for herself, lighting it and breathing it in, before sitting back on the hood of the car and folding her arms across her chest.

Erik lights up his own and settles beside her. "You are the only person I know who doesn't just use a lighter," he says, looking out onto the highway rather than at her.

"I do it just to irritate you," she says.

Erik grunts. They smoke in silence for a moment before he forces himself to speak again. "I care for Charles. A great deal, actually."

He expects Moira to laugh or say something withering about how she's surprised Erik Lehnsherr can care about anything that isn't work, or to say that's what she was afraid of. But only silence greets his confession, and a streamer of smoke as Moira exhales. She taps her cigarette against the bench and the ashes fall softly to the concrete.

"Do you mind me asking why?" she asks at last.

"Because." Erik ashes his own cigarette, staring at the embers as they cool and die between his feet. The smoke is bitter but soothing on his tongue when he takes another drag. When Moira snorts and says, "That's so eloquent, Lehnsherr," Erik rolls his eyes. "He's... determined. He's been through a sea of shit and come out the other side." Idly, he toys with saying _and he's great in bed_ , but he's not about to share that with anyone, not even Moira.

"So he reminds you of... you," Moira says archly. "I don't know if that's romantic or narcissistic, or both."

"Moira..." Erik half-growls her name. It isn't often he gets angry with her, truly angry, not now that he knows how she expresses affection and friendship – back when they'd first started working together, he wouldn't have been so forgiving – but she's prodding to close to a bruise, a vulnerable point in his mind that he's going to guard for all he's worth.

"I'm sorry." To her credit, Moira actually sounds contrite. "You've had partners before and haven't fallen into bed with them, and you've been alone so long. Erik, this me being _concerned_ , okay? I don't want either of you getting hurt by... by rushing into something. If you want to take that as me being worried about a good detective and a good consultant being compromised, fine, but as someone who actually _likes_ you, and someone who likes Charles, I don't want to see either of you burned by this."

"Has it compromised us so far?" Erik asks. He knows it hasn't – or, at least, it hasn't compromised their productivity. They've closed two cases in five weeks, they _work_ together. They're good together.

"It hasn't," Moira admits, the only answer she can give. She smiles slightly. "It's just... it's strange. New."

"It is," Erik agrees. "Both of those." He pauses, playing with his lighter, letting it float in the air between them – glad to have something physical, tangible there to distract him. He says, "I understand your concerns. But he's not going to thank you for treating him like a kid, like he doesn't know his own mind or can't make his own choices. I can tell you, whatever worries you have for him, I've probably thought them, too. I'd stop this in a second if I thought he was going to get hurt." It's a lot of words to spit out; they seem to echo, aching somewhere in his chest. He can only imagine what his face looks like right now, but Moira's seen it from him before. Seen worse. No matter what, she's never going to be scared of him.

"Lehnsherr," Moira says, shaking her head, "were you even listening to me just now? Charles isn't the only one I worry about."

He doesn't have an answer to that, not right away, and by the time he's begun forming a snappy comeback, Moira has already crushed her butt between her fingers and tossed it in the trash. He stomps out his own beneath his heel and follows her back into the car.

* * *

Between Moira's confession and the confirmation of the Hirschfield burials, the ride home is less tense than the ride up. It helps, in certain ways, that the Catskill police are shocked and horrified, and the county attorney and sheriff had been quick to give the two of them their cooperation; Moira had taken it and, in short order, got the county coroner and a special forensics team up from Manhattan to supervise the exhumations and transfer of the bodies back to Manhattan. By way of acknowledging this, Erik tells Moira she can control the radio, which gets him another significant look as she leans forward to play with the dials, taking it as the peace offering it mostly is.

They're barely within the city limits again before he hears Charles's voice in his head, saying his name. It's startling, causing Erik to physically twitch – as if the better part of a day was long enough for him to settle back into the way things were before – and Moira gives him a strange look before he waves it aside.

_Are you okay? I heard some updates earlier, it sounded like you might have found her..._

_I think so_ , Erik sends him, _but we won't know for sure until the tests come back._

A flare of impatience from Charles, quickly tamped down. _I went back to my apartment after the station. You can come over later if you feel like it. Just let yourself in if I'm asleep._

It is late; Erik's only just realizing it, the sun mostly down despite the days lengthening into early spring. They've been at Sing Sing the better part of the day, negotiating with Brockton and Hodge and their attorneys. Rather than hike back down to the city, Moira had decided to stay in Ossining, the better to expedite the search, and the better to pry more information out of their sources if they had to. Erik can't help the gratitude that flares in him; he doesn't know how many humans would have pushed the issue on trying to find a years-dead mutant girl.

_Do you want me to get anything?_ he asks, not knowing if Charles is still paying attention; there's a slow quality to his thoughts that suggests he's tired.

_No, I'm okay_ , Charles replies, infusing the word with a bit of reassurance. _I'll see you later, maybe?_

_I'll be there._

He gets a last, soft brush of Charles's thoughts, like a kiss on the forehead, before his sense of Charles vanishes. He returns his full attention to the road and, somewhat more irritatingly, to Moira, whose eyes are glinting knowingly in the city lights. "You can keep your mouth shut," he tells her.

"We won't have the DNA results until early next week," Moira says instead of whatever smartass remark she was going to come out with. "I've asked for the samples from the remains belonging to the first body they found to be fast-tracked, but the case is cold and the culprits who are directly responsible are all hiding out in Switzerland."

"I know," Erik rasps. Too many victims, too much blood to wade through. He reminds himself they've done everything they can. They have a plausible theory for the motive. They have Talbot, the man who sold Maddy out, in custody and he'll spend the next few years in jail for obstruction. And he _knows_ that has to be Maddy they found; he knows it deep down in his gut, seeing how those poor, abandoned bones fit into the puzzle.

For now, he'll drop Moira off at the station, collect his own overnight bag, and go to Charles's.

He finds it's a constant in his life, that the mere fact of having a plan is a comfort, no matter what the plan might be. But this plan is better than many of his have been in the past, he figures, if it ends with Charles in his arms. 

Moira has one more remark to share, of course, when they get to the station. She gets out of the car and leans back over, looking at him through the window. "Take care of yourself, Lehnsherr, okay?" 

"I always do," he says gruffly, but he's still thinking about it even after she shakes her head and walks away.

It only takes him a few minutes to collect his things from his place. Though it's getting tired quickly, he reflects, this constant back and forth logistics every night. It's not as though there's any other choice, though, not if he wants to see Charles; it's way too soon for any steps in another direction, even if Charles hadn't already explicitly made clear his intentions and need for his own space.

Erik can't feel Charles's consciousness wrapping him up as he gets closer to his building, which he takes as a sign that Charles is, in fact, already asleep. He doesn't have a key for Charles's apartment, so he looks around carefully in the hallway, making sure no nosy neighbors are watching to get the wrong idea when he uses his powers to unlock and enter the front door. 

There's one light still on, over the kitchen sink. Erik smiles and turns it off as he walks down the hallway. He changes into sleep clothes in the bathroom, brushes his teeth and washes his face, and then heads to the bedroom.

He stands in the doorway for a minute, just watching Charles sleep. Even in the dimness, he can make out the frowning concentration on Charles's face, the line that makes its way across his forehead. After a moment, Charles grumbles something indecipherable and rolls over from his back to his side, leaving more room on Erik's side of the bed. Erik takes it as a signal and crosses the room to crawl into the bed. He reaches out, pulling Charles close against him; Charles sighs, and the lines in his face soften slightly, though he doesn't stir. 

Erik doesn't fall asleep right away tonight; it takes him a long time, actually, curled up around Charles like a kid with his teddy bear, his eyes shut tight – though, later, he won't have any memory of what it was he thought about.


	6. Chapter six: Saturday

He wakes up in some blurry, timeless space before his cell phone's alarm goes off. Charles still is nestled warm in his arms, his breaths soft and warm through Erik's t-shirt. In the confusion of waking up out of such deep sleep – he doesn't even remember dreaming – he needs a moment to orient himself, to remember he's in Charles's apartment, on his not-quite-comfortable mattress.

_It's almost time to get up_. Charles's thoughts come thick and slow, the words blurry before they resolve into something approximating his normal speech. He doesn't try to move or pull away, but instead burrows closer as if hiding will make the morning come more slowly. _What do we need to do today?_

A lot of things. Erik's barely begun to list them before his alarm goes off. Charles groans.

"Paperwork," Erik says simply. He drops a kiss on the tousled mess of Charles's hair. "And we need... we need to track down any of the Lockwoods' next of kin, tell them what's happening."

Charles yawns and stretches, then reluctantly pulls away. His face, once Erik's turned the light on and can see it, is somber, fuzzy at the edges with sleep as it is. "But we... You know it's Maddy, but not for sure."

"We need the confirmation. The test is going to need the weekend to run." Erik shrugs. "Welcome to bureaucracy and chronically understaffed forensic laboratories." He swings himself out of bed, shaking off the last of his sleepiness. He needs action and activity today, to distract him from the empty weekend and Shaw looming on the other side of it.

"Okay," Charles says, although he doesn't sound happy about it. He fumbles with his shirt, tugging it off in favor of a clean undershirt. The change only makes his hair even more chaotic. Erik smiles, caught in a flash flood of affection he's powerless to stop, before turning away to the bathroom.

He showers quickly, scrubbing himself down in the lukewarm water, a reminder that this is for practicality rather than pleasure. He finishes up, drying off and dressing. Walking into the kitchen gives him déjà vu: Charles standing at the stove with his oatmeal, the shrieking noises of the coffee machine, all the same as the other day. Like more days to come, Erik supposes, if he's lucky.

The coffee isn't quite ready yet, so he stands in front of it, staring down at the machine. "You can't intimidate it into working faster," Charles says, but Erik chooses to ignore him.

Just as they're both sitting down at the table, Charles with his bowl and Erik with his mug, there's a loud noise from the counter, a ringtone it takes a second for Erik to identify as Charles's. He's called Charles himself, of course, but he's never been witness to Charles receiving a call or even a text; it's an unfamiliar sound. Charles looks surprised as well as he stands back up to see to it, though that's nothing compared to the sudden bright flash of emotion that he shares with Erik once he's reached the phone and seen the caller ID.

_It's my mother_ , Charles sends, stunned.

"Are you going to answer it?" Erik asks.

Charles hesitates, staring down at the phone in his hand like it's a bomb that might go off. "No," he says, "I don't think I will," and swipes his thumb across the screen to reject the call.

The phone beeps loudly again a minute later, just as they're making their way out of the door, signaling a new message. _I'll listen to it later_ , Charles says, though Erik doesn't ask.

"We're going to have to present the case to Moira," he tells Charles, as much to prepare him for disappointment as to indicate he won't force the issue of Charles's mother. "And she's going to tell us that, even if the remains they found turn out to be Madeline's, we won't be able to prosecute the case for her parents' murder immediately."

"Because everyone who did it is where we can't get them," Charles concludes bitterly, and Erik realizes that, of course, Charles has already followed the evidence to its conclusion. Dr. Ferenc and Dr. Hirschfield have dual citizenship in France and Switzerland respectively; their countries aren't sending them anywhere, if they can even be tracked down.

"We may be able to tack on additional obstruction and abuse charges to Hodge and Brockton, since they had direct knowledge of what Hirschfield was doing and didn't reveal it during the investigation," Moira tells them once they're in her office, the case files spread across her desk. "But no one we have access to has any knowledge of who ordered the Lockwoods killed. It's a sound, plausible theory," she adds, with a gentle smile for Charles, who is festering with anger and frustration, "and I've passed the file on to the ADA anyway; they may be able to get something out of it and use the murder of a child and her parents as leverage to get them extradited."

"Fuck," Charles says. There's a sudden pulse of anger in the room, thick and heavy and suffocating, before Charles has it bottled up tight. The only sign of strain Erik can pick up is how his grip has gone tight on the armrests of his chair. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Moira says briskly. Erik holds back his relief; he knows Charles wouldn't take well to Moira coddling him. "We still might be able to bring this home. In the meantime, good work, and your reward is writing up your case notes and getting them ready for me to give to the prosecutors."

"Lucky us," Erik quips. He nudges Charles. "C'mon, you know the drill."

_I do_ , Charles says mournfully, although its exaggerated quality seems like a cover. Erik quickly works out why; Charles is touching his cell phone, fingers running anxiously over and over the metal casing.

_Why don't you go check on that while I get started_ , Erik says as they leave the office. Charles gives him a quick glance and then nods. _I'll just be a second_ , he says.

_Take your time_.

Erik used to despise the paperwork part of the job, but he's grown somewhat fond of it in a strange way, as the years have gone on. It's tedious, yes, the very opposite of glamorous, but it's _important_. Necessary. There's something satisfying, deep down at the core of it, of having everything set and filed and sorted exactly as it should be. Everything in its right container; nothing missing or confusing. Something you can point to and everybody can see it exactly the same. _This is what happened._

He's focused on the work enough that he doesn't look up or acknowledge Charles when he returns. Charles says nothing, though, just sits still in his chair, hand still clasped around his phone, and after a minute that's enough to make Erik pause and direct his attention to him.

"What is it?" Erik says.

"They have a suspect in custody for Kurt's death," Charles says. "It looks like it was probably just a stranger, just happenstance, not even somebody who knew him enough to hate him." He shakes his head slowly. "But that's not the main reason she called. She was inviting me to the funeral tomorrow." There's a grim sort of amusement in Charles's voice, distant and cool, like it's something separate from himself. He continues, "I suppose invitation is the wrong word, actually. It was more of a summons."

"Fuck her," Erik says. Tomorrow's Sunday – Sunday already, god, the week's gone by fast. They won't be working tomorrow. Erik tries to think of what he could do to make it a good day for Charles. Brunch comes to mind, but that's out, if Charles won't feel comfortable with people seeing them as a couple together – but Erik's a decent cook, he can go shopping tonight, whip something up. Breakfast in bed, maybe, and lazy sex, maybe a couple games of chess...

"No," Charles interrupts his thoughts. "I want to go. Not to mourn him, but... I don't know. To prove something to myself, I guess." He shrugs, the sort of indolent gesture that makes him look like the apathetic bored teenager he isn't. 

"To prove – " Erik snaps his mouth shut before he can say any more. He can't see what Charles has to prove to himself that's worth the pain, but he knows even less about Charles's relationship with Kurt Marko than he knows about the questionable ones he had with his father and mother. He's already seen what ten minutes in Sharon Xavier's presence does to Charles.

"If I'm going to take over the company, if I'm going to fix it," Charles says, regarding Erik solemnly – and immovably; Erik's not going to be able to budge him on this, "I'm going to have to see her. I'm going to have to look at the people who benefited from my father's experiments. And I have to know I can do that."

_You can_ , Erik wants to say, because he's selfish and terrible. He knows Charles is right; his own life hasn't had that moment, facing the one thing that tried to destroy him, the one insurmountable obstacle. (Although it's coming, it has to; he can't imagine never seeing Shaw again, ever being free of him.) But that doesn't keep him from wanting Charles all to himself tomorrow before he has to face whatever Monday brings.

He forces himself back to work, pushing thoughts of Charles to the side where they belong. Charles at least seems to have calmed since he made his decision, as unfathomable as it is; he pulls up his own forms on the computer and begins to fill them out, fingers click-clicking swiftly over the keys. After a while, though, he stirs restlessly, glancing at Erik and away as if afraid of being caught.

"What is it?" Erik asks. He half-hopes Charles is going to recant, even though he knows it's futile. The rest of him hopes whatever comes out of Charles's mouth has to do with the case and not his wretched family.

_Moira says we can leave when the paperwork's done_ , Charles sends, probably sensing they've been treading over Erik's boundaries and that Erik isn't in a place to talk about anything that isn't the case. Erik bridles at the thought that he's being _handled_ , and Charles, somewhat more pointedly, says aloud, "So the sooner we finish, the sooner we can go home."

Home, Erik thinks, bemused. "Good," he says, "so let's get it done."

Charles rolls his eyes. They _are_ nearly done, though, happily enough; it's less than an hour before they're ready to pack it up and leave. Charles is extra eager to be gone tonight, it would seem, because he grabs Erik's keys and tells him he'll meet him in the car and is gone, while Erik is still finishing up at his desk. He likes for his desk to be clean, immaculate, when he comes back after a day or two off. He's gotten the things he needs together and locked away everything else.

Erik's standing up, buttoning up his coat, when Munroe stops by. "Good work on the Lockwood case," she says.

"Thanks."

He doesn't expect the conversation to go much past that, but Munroe shifts her weight on her leg, giving him a smile, like she's settled into the conversation. "I mean it, all of us in the department are really proud of you guys. I'm sure Alex is too scared of you to tell you this, but you know his little brother?"

Munroe correctly interprets Erik's blank look. She raises her eyebrows with a skeptical smile. "Alex Summers. His brother Scott. He's brought him in a couple times, I know you've met him. Teenager, mutant, tall, red glasses?"

"Right, right," Erik says, remembering. He hadn't liked the kid. Summers was tolerable, on occasion, but his brother seemed the worst sort of toadying goody two-shoes. 

"Yeah, well," Munroe says, "they got separated after their parents died, Scott got lost in the system and Alex spent years trying to find him. It turned out he'd somehow gotten in with these assholes at that institute. He was one of the kids that was still there when the place got shut down. They'd managed to fuck up his mutation even worse than it had been when he'd gone in, poor kid's stuck wearing glasses now."

"Shit," Erik says. He stares at her, biting her lip, and Munroe just nods.

"Like I said, Alex is probably never going to mention it to you, but I think he'd want you to know." Munroe reaches, punches Erik in the arm. She's tall for a woman, only a few inches shorter than Erik, less if she wears heels (taller than Charles, either way). "Anyway, good work. You should come out for a drink tomorrow." She gives him a wide smile. "Don't worry – that definitely wasn't me coming on to you. For any number of reasons."

"That's a relief." He lets her comment flow over and by him, ignoring the suspicion and worry that flickers through him like lightning. "And I'll think about it."

"Which means no," Munroe says, although she doesn't sound disappointed or resigned. "But Charles is welcome too, so, you know, feel free to tell him."

She leaves before Erik can formulate a reply to that, cutting through the afternoon traffic of the office, her pale hair a beacon above the crowd of bent-over heads. Erik's line of sight takes in Summers growling something into his cell phone, Logan and Emma at their desk, Angel and Darwin, who have just come out of Moira's office. They make up most of the mutants who work in the department, along with Charles and another telepathic consultant, a pair of detectives over in Vice and one in Special Victims. He's always thought of them as fellow mutants, of course, members of his family in the abstract, even if he's not particularly interested in the more concrete ties of friendship. But for the first time, watching Munroe as she parries an insult from Logan, he thinks of them as being affected by the Lockwood case as much as he's been. More; as much as Charles has been.

_Are you coming?_ The question weaves into Erik's reverie, tugging him away from it.

_Keep your pants on_ , he replies as he double-checks for his wallet.

Charles's voice is decidedly mischievous when he says, _I'd rather not_. There's an edge to it, though, that Erik remembers from Charles turning to him in the car after seeing his mother, and neatly blowing through all of Erik's roadblocks when he'd said he needed Erik to fuck him.

_Oh, come on_ , Charles says defensively, _we're off of work now. Surely..._

_I do have to use that car every day_ , Erik reminds him. _I can't just be thinking about how pretty you are when you come every time I do, can I_?

He realizes it was a mistake as soon as he thinks it, even before he hears Charles's surprised groan in his head. _Dammit_ , Erik thinks, _god fucking dammit_. At least his body has more self-control than his thoughts, and he's able to get out of the building without making a fool of himself (or, thank god, having to speak to anybody else). 

Charles is leaning over in his seat, looking out the window purposefully; his hands are clenched into fists on his thighs in a way that makes Erik suspect he's doing his best not to touch himself, press down gently on top of his pants to soothe himself. 

"I'm sorry," Erik says awkwardly. He picks up the keys from where Charles has left them on the drivers’ seat and avoids looking back at Charles as he settles into the car. "That was – that was my fault. _I_ was out of line."

He can tell Charles is holding back any number of thoughts from him – it's a little lonely, actually, knowing Charles is doing it, even though Erik knows that's stupid, since he's the one who _asked_ Charles to. Charles says, a little more quietly than usual, "It's okay. I'll let you make it up to me at home, how's that?"

Erik bites his lip, trying not to smile. "I do need to stop at the grocery store. Do you have any preferences?"

Charles unfolds himself from his position, relaxing a bit as he turns to Erik. "You really can cook?" he says, skepticism obvious in his tone.

This time, Erik does smile, the one he always does when challenged, the one that he knows bears his teeth a little too aggressively. "Of _course_ I can cook. Anything you want – well, within reason," he adds. "No pork, shrimp, lobster. Otherwise whatever."

"You don't even keep kosher," Charles says accusingly. "I've seen you eat bacon a dozen times!"

"Yeah, but I don't bring it into my kitchen," Erik says. "Do you think I want my poor mama to cry in the afterlife about how she raised me better?"

Charles doesn't respond with the laugh Erik had been expecting. Instead, he withdraws, coiling away from Erik as if from something unexpectedly hot or sharp, his eyes wide and, suddenly, anxious. Erik's getting nothing from him, Charles still walled up behind his shields, but the mental silence has a different quality to it now, more absolute, no sense of Charles there at all.

"What?" Erik asks.

"Nothing," Charles says quickly. He fusses with his seat belt, apparently absorbed in the process of strapping himself in as he stares down at his fingers fumbling on the buckle. "Just, we should go before the traffic gets bad."

"No, we shouldn't," Erik says. He sighs inwardly, tells himself he doesn't care if Charles hears it, and lets the key rest half-turned in the ignition while the engine light blinks and chimes. "What _is_ it, Charles?"

"We can talk about it when we get back to your place," Charles says stiffly. "You can get whatever you want to eat; I don't care."

There it is: _your place_ , not _home_. "Fine," Erik growls as he turns the car on. "Whatever."

At the store, after twenty minutes of Charles's unbreakable silence, Erik's half-tempted to get something he knows Charles dislikes just to needle him, maybe turkey sausage (for which Charles holds an unaccountable hatred) or the deli's decidedly mediocre potato salad. He ends up with chicken and some innocuous vegetables and rice, bland and inoffensive, something his dwindling appetite can cope with. Charles greets him with more silence, although it's decidedly more awkward now, and when Erik glances at him, Charles looks more miserable and uncertain than defiant.

Erik lets them into his apartment, telling himself that at least Charles is still here and hasn't demanded to be taken back to his place, and mechanically starts preparing dinner while Charles changes. He doesn't look up from chopping vegetables and cutting the chicken into strips for broiling when Charles materializes in the entryway to the kitchen, hovering anxiously by the end of the island.

"So are you going to talk?" Erik asks, probably more sarcastically than he should.

Charles is silent for so long Erik figures that he isn't. But then, finally, Charles says, so softly Erik almost doesn't catch the words. "Your... you said – you talked about your mother. I didn't... I didn't know if you were – " He shakes his head. "I didn't know if you were serious. Or if you were joking. But... I don't understand how you... fuck. I didn't mean to push you about the kosher stuff. I'm sorry I brought it up, if you were hurt by it. If it hurts thinking about her."

Erik doesn't stop his chopping, but he slows it down as he processes what Charles is saying. "It didn't hurt me," he says finally. "You didn't say anything wrong. Charles, I _like_ to talk about her – I like that I can talk about her, with you. There haven't been a lot of people I can do that with." He stares down at the chopping board, the finely diced tomatoes and onions. "This used to be my job while she cooked, you know," Erik says. "The chopping. I don't know if it was her trying to be supportive of my mutation, or getting me to do something productive with it instead of just ruining all her silverware by playing with it, or if it was something more, a family ritual, you know? But that's how I learned to cook, watching her every night."

He turns to the stove, setting a large skillet on medium and drizzling in olive oil. Behind him, Charles says, uncertainly, "That... that sounds like a nice memory."

"It is." When he thinks the oil's hot enough, he adds the onions, appreciating the hot hiss they make as they fall into the pan. "I have a lot of good memories of her. When I was about your age, probably, I realized that Shaw might have been able to take her away from me, but he couldn't take any of those away, too. He wasn't that strong. All of that belongs to _me._ "

"Oh," Charles says, and then nothing else.

"Occasionally," Erik says, "even _I_ manage to get my shit together. Not often, I'll give you, but..." If that's all Erik has of her, he's damn well going to cling to it. He can remember turning thirty, his sudden realization that he had been alive without her longer than he had been alive _with_ her. It was devastating at the time, but he can deal with it now. He doesn't believe in God, not really, or any kind of an afterlife, but he makes an exception for her, imagining her happy somewhere, looking over him. It's another place where his ability to compartmentalize had come in handy, allowing him to hold those two opposing ideas in his head in the same time. 

He adds the rice to the pan, stirring to get it all glossy with fat, and then a chug of wine, letting it cook off for a minute or two before he adds the tomato and broth. When it's come to a boil, he covers it and sets the heat to low, turning around to give Charles his full attention.

Maybe it's just because he's been thinking of his mother, of the passage of time, but Charles looks especially young as he leans over the island, frowning down at the bowl of raw chicken. Erik's mother has been dead for longer than Charles has been alive – it's something Erik has known, of course, but it hits him especially strongly right now.

"I don't mind you asking about her," he says at last. Charles's hair has fallen forward, unruly as always, obscuring his eyes, and with Charles keeping his thoughts to himself, no way to tell what's going inside that head of his. "And if I do talk about her, it won't hurt me."

The anniversaries of her death are difficult. The day after tomorrow will be hell, waiting for the results of Shaw's parole hearing. But the memories themselves stay untouched. They aren't a source of pain for him. He wonders if Charles, with his fantastically complex memory, that forgets nothing and forges connections between any one of a thousand different moments, simply can't understand that – or, as is more likely, he has no experience of a mother or father who deserve the name.

"It's both of those, I guess." Erik blinks in surprise; he hadn't felt Charles listening in. Now that he's paying attention, he can feel the slight pressure of Charles's mind as it slides along his like one hand settling warmly atop another. Finally, Charles looks up at him, a wry, sad smile on his lips, one Erik wants to stroke away and replace with his own mouth "I guess I've always thought thinking of your parents ought to hurt, one way or another."

"It shouldn't," Erik tells him. 

He dares to reach out, to touch Charles's wrist where it lies against the marble counter top. Charles permits it and even welcomes it, when he shifts a little closer, close enough for Erik to turn the touch into a gentle tug, pulling Charles closer into his orbit. On a sigh, Charles does come, his mind opening finally, flickering over Erik with regret and relief and even apology for overreacting and backing off. It's not the kind of apology that wants to be acknowledged – Erik knows the sort, the kind that's too embarrassed to drag the moment out – so rather than saying anything, Erik tilts Charles's face up to his and, for the first time since this morning, kisses him.

It starts out sweet, almost chaste – a greeting, or a reminder of sorts, Erik thinks – but it grows into something deeper quickly. Charles wraps his arms around Erik's neck, holding him close and letting out soft happy noises against Erik's mouth. Erik keeps his hands framing Charles's face, thoroughly exploring his mouth, until after a few minutes something snaps over in him; he shifts his hands down to Charles's ass and picks him up, settling his weight down on the counter. It startles a laugh out of Charles. The height that this puts Charles at lines their faces up, and allows Charles's legs to twist around Erik's waist, pulling him in tighter against him. 

It's only the sound of the kitchen timer that makes Erik pull away, and even then Charles is loath to let him go. He does, though, with a frown, bracing his arms behind him and leaning his head back against the cabinets as he watches Erik work. The rice is done, and he sets it on a cold burner; the chicken gets thrown onto a broiling pan and tossed in the oven. 

"Five minutes," Erik says. "Set the table, and then after we eat we can do anything you want."

That gets Charles's attention, just as Erik knew it would. "Anything?" he repeats, raising an eyebrow. 

Charles has remarkably expressive eyebrows. Erik gives in to an urge, coming over and stroking his thumbs over them, following the grain of the hair. After further consideration, he kisses each in turn.

"Anything," he whispers, and he can feel the way Charles's entire body shivers at the word.

Dinner is, unsurprisingly, short, as well as quiet; Charles's mind is obviously elsewhere, considering his options, and Erik... well, Erik is focused on Charles. Charles waits until they've both finished, even puts away the leftovers while Erik starts the washing up. Finally, when Erik's put the last pan on to soak, he hears Charles's voice, eager in his head: _All right?_

"All right," Erik agrees. He turns around from the sink, drying his hands on a dish towel and giving Charles a slow smile. "Now what?"

"Well," Charles says. He leans back in his chair, crossing his legs, one arm resting on the table, the other lying along his leg so his fingers can naturally cup his knee. If you gave him a suit and tie and made his hair behave, Erik thinks, he'd be out of a Noël Coward play, although Charles is only polished and civilized on the surface. Charles even taps his fingers on the table top, a casual little rhythm. The smile he offers Erik, though, is sly – devilish, really, red lips curving away from his teeth like a wolf's. "We've been working all day, and I feel a bit grimy."

Erik snorts. "I didn't think you'd be so fastidious."

"Fuck me in the shower."

The words are a blunt weapon, a kick to the solar plexus. Erik's entire body goes tight, his mind blank of everything but the image of Charles skin flushed pink, glistening as water pours over it, scrabbling on the slick tiles for purchase as Erik pounds into him.

"You can have that," Charles murmurs. He unfolds himself and stands, a meaningful look down at Erik's crotch, where he's already starting to get hard, his cock pushing at the trim line of his trousers. "I think if you ever went commando under there they'd have to arrest you for, I don't know, public lewdness."

He holds out a beckoning hand and Erik follows – nothing else for it, he knows, not when Charles is hot-eyed and smirking. Charles keeps him at arm's length as they head down the hallway, only the pads of his fingers resting on Erik's, but those four points of contact are electric, energy racing along Erik's nerves and lighting him up. It gets better when Charles pauses just inside Erik's bathroom door and draws him close, and Erik can shelter Charles between the wall and his body, a thigh between Charles's to brace him as Charles gazes silently up, his mouth slick and parted.

"Someday I'm going to build up an immunity to your mouth, you know," Erik murmurs. "I'm not going to be this easy for you to lead around."

"Oh," Charles says, blinking, "I certainly do hope that's not true."

Erik kisses him, of course. Of course. _How can you be this fucking perfect, every time?_ , he thinks, and Charles makes a pleased noise as he tugs Erik's shirt out of his waistband, rucking it up so he can get his hands underneath and clutch his hot hands against Erik's lower back.

Erik pulls back just enough to begin to nibble on Charles's lower lip, and to be able to see the way Charles's eyelashes brush dark and long against his cheekbones. He thinks, _I half-expected you to tell me you want to fuck me_.

A thrill of surprise from Charles at that, and Erik can't immediately tell how positive or negative it is, as Charles's eyes flutter back open. _Is that – is that something that you want?_ Charles says, sounding almost confused.

"I cannot overstate to you how happy I would be going on as we've started, doing exactly this," Erik reassures him. He kisses him again, for good measure. "I just wanted to make sure you knew that was an option on the table."

Charles relaxes again, settling back into the kissing; his hands come up, brushing through Erik's hair, though his mind is still processing. _Have you done that before_?

_Yes_ , Erik tells him, though there's a "but" to go with it. It's been over a decade since Erik had anything up his ass that wasn't fingers or a toy; even then, the amount of times it happened he could count on a single hand with fingers left over. He has a strong suspicion that Charles has much more experience pitching than Erik does catching. But what Charles had done to him with his fingers last weekend had been lovely, and truly, it's hard to imagine anything they could do together that wouldn't be amazing. 

_Maybe a different time_ , Charles says thoughtfully. _But for right now, I do have a plan_.

_I remember_ , Erik assures him. With a great deal of effort, he removes his body from Charles, taking a step back, smirking at the dirty look Charles gives him in return.

"Too bad your tub is so small... we could have taken a bath together," Charles says as Erik gestures to turn the shower on. The water falls, sudden and sharp and steam starts to rise as the water heats. Charles tugs at the hem of his shirt, runs his thumb over the metal snap of his jeans. "Wouldn't you like that?" he asks. "Me between your legs, you rubbing your cock against my ass, jerking me off while you do it..."

"Fuck's sake, Charles," Erik growls. He grabs Charles by the waistband and pulls, and Charles tumbles laughing into his arms. "I'd rip these off you, if I could."

"You'd have to pay for new ones," Charles says into Erik's chest, squirming when Erik slides his hands down the back of his jeans to squeeze his ass. He's already hard, cock deliciously insistent against Erik's through their clothes, his hips working as Erik palms him and works his fingers into the crease of that lovely ass to tease his hole. _God, who's teasing now?_

"Get your clothes off," Erik breathes, adds "please, want to touch you" when that sounds like too much of an order.

Order or not, Charles slides out of his shirt and jeans and underwear with a speed that Erik can't quite believe. Still, it leaves Charles naked and close, a bare foot absently toeing his clothes aside, a movement that's strangely hypnotic. In the rapidly-building humidity, Charles's hair curls even more and a faint hint of red has started in his cheeks and shoulders; Erik imagines how it'll spread under the hot running water as he sucks even redder marks into Charles's neck.

"Do you need help with that?" Charles asks, quirking an eyebrow at Erik's hands, which have stopped unbuttoning his shirt. "Because it's not environmentally sound to waste water."

Erik thinks better of the snappy answer that comes to mind. Instead, he says, "You know what, maybe I do." He lets his arms fall to his sides and waits.

Charles licks his lips, his eyes darting from Erik's face down to the open v exposing his chest as he closes the distance between them to a few inches – close enough that Erik can feel his body heat, but not so close that they're actually touching. He places his hands on the buttons to Erik's shirt, and starts to undo them at a tortuously slow pace, careful not to let his fingers brush against Erik's skin. When the last button is undone, Charles pulls lightly on one sleeve, letting the entire shirt fall off of Erik's shoulders, getting caught on his hands.

Charles takes a step back then, looking Erik over so intently that it feels almost like a touch. When his gaze reaches Erik's eyes again, he's smiling. He runs his palm slowly down Erik's chest, the muscles of his stomach, the flat planes beneath his navel, and stops at Erik's crotch, cupping his erection through the trouser fabric with a soft sigh. "I think you remember how to do the rest of that yourself, don't you?" Charles says wickedly, and then he's stepping up into the shower, laughing at Erik's fervent curse.

Erik shoves down his pants and underwear, almost tripping over them in his haste to get them off, and he's in the stall as well before Charles's laughter has time to die out. "You're an awful boy, and I don't know why I put up with you," he says, shoving Charles hard against the tile wall. As intimidation, it obviously doesn't work – he would never expect it to, not when Charles can see how hard he is, not when he can't keep his hands away from Charles's skin – but then, that's not Erik's intent, anyway. What it does work at is making Charles mewl, one of those soft little noises Erik can't get enough of, especially when he forces Charles's head up, exposing his throat for Erik to kiss.

_Because I let you do this to me_ , Charles suggests. He thrusts, trying to rub himself against Erik's thigh, but Erik places a hand on his hip, holding him still against the wall.

_That's not why_ , Erik replies. With his free hand, he strokes a finger across the place where Charles's ass meets his upper thigh; it causes Charles to make another one of those little noises. _Try again_.

_Because you love me?_ Charles suggests.

"Yeah," Erik says. Charles might have said that teasingly, of a piece with everything else he's done to Erik so far, but the only way Erik can answer it is honestly. Charles is staring up at him, delight and terror washing across his face like the water, as if he can't believe – even though he's been in Erik's head, he's in there _right now_ – the reality of what he's seeing and hearing.

There isn't anything he can do about it; Charles knows how he feels, will learn to understand and believe it eventually. At least he can kiss the fear away, until Charles's mouth tastes like him and the warm water pouring down. _I shouldn't mark you up too much_ , he thinks regretfully as he traces a path down Charles's neck and shoulder, over a trio of small red patches where his lips and teeth have been. _You'll have to at least pretend to be respectable tomorrow._

_We'll worry about tomorrow tomorrow_ , Charles tells him. He arches eagerly against Erik, his hips rocking so their cocks can rub together. Erik moans, the pleasure so deep and fierce all he wants is to chase after it. Charles is touching him all over, playing with his nipples, the skin over his ribs, his ass so he can grind the two of them pointedly together. His belly is slick, tight, just right to rut his cock against, Erik thinks deliriously, and Charles catches the thought and hums his agreement. And Erik touches his back, unable to keep his hands off, touching and taking his fill of all the skin and flesh he can reach.

When he gets his hands behind Charles, running his fingers into the hot declivity of Charles's ass, back and forth over the curves of it, to the tender crease at his thigh, Charles says meditatively, _Maybe you could spank me sometime. Would you like that?_

"I don't – " He can't tell if it's something in the heat of the moment, or if it's something Charles sincerely wants, but god the _picture_ of it, Charles stretched out atop his thighs, his ass red and marked all over with Erik's palm prints. "I don't know," Erik makes himself say. "This is – this is wonderful, like this."

"You look different when your hair's wet," Charles says softly in response, as if he's confiding something meant to be secret, or avoiding the questions hovering in the air. Before Erik can work out what to say to that, Charles grins and leans up to kiss him one last time, his body a sleek, heady slide against Erik's. _Will you fuck me now?_

Erik breathes in deeply. He grabs Charles's shoulders, easing him around until he's facing the wall. "Hold on to the shower door," Erik advises, and Charles stretches one arm to grip tightly at the metal at the top, bracing himself, while his other hand rests against the slick tile of the wall.

Erik drops to his knees, kissing down the prominent knobs of Charles's spine, down to the small of his back, and the indentations just above his ass. He uses his hands to spread Charles's cheeks, letting the hot water flow over and through his crease. Hands on Charles's hips, he pulls his entire body back about a foot, just far enough that they're not directly under the spray, and Erik can tongue Charles's hole without feeling like he's going to drown. 

He intends at first to tease, to spend some time carefully tracing the rim, over and over, making Charles wait for it – but Charles is already breathing out those deep, heavy exhalations that are the very next thing to a sob, and his body is already so hungry and eager for it, any part of Erik it can get, and Erik very abruptly loses whatever reasoning he had for making them both wait. _I'm going to make love to you with my tongue just like I will with my cock_ , Erik promises. Charles moans at that, and then again once the tip of Erik's tongue penetrates him, deep as it will go, fucking him for all he's worth. Charles raises one foot, settling it on the corner of the tub, and the way it changes the angle of his spread legs means that Erik no longer has to hold him open. He can put his hands to better use instead, adding his fingers to open Charles up even further. He considers, for a moment, that perhaps he should pause and fetch the lube – but Charles shuts down that idea with a fervent _No_ both out loud and in Erik's head.

"Don't stop, please, don't you _dare_ stop," Charles says, sounding like he's choking. Erik takes his hand that's not currently knuckles-deep in Charles and runs it down Charles's flank. It's meant to be soothing, calming, but it's obviously nothing of the sort; Charles just thrusts back against him with greater urgency. 

_You're taking it so good_ , Erik says, and he leans in to lick around where his two fingers have disappeared into Charles's heat. 

_I can take more_ , Charles says, and when Erik looks up, through the droplets of water he can see Charles's head is turned to the side, biting down on his own upper arm. _I can take all of it, Erik, I swear, please just do it – _

Erik stands up, taking his own cock in hand. He rubs the head lightly against Charles's hole, watching the way it spasms, the way Charles's body follows him, trying to take him in. 

He swallows, hard, and says, "I need to-"

"Please," Charles groans. _I know you're clean, I looked, and I swear to God, I am, too, can we please just –_

"Not like this," Erik manages, although it's killing him, the insistent throb of his cock and Charles right here, offering everything up to him, offering the promise of that wonderful hot tightness without a condom between them. Charles's answering sigh is frustrated and heartfelt, and he straightens a little, shame trickling in. "No, Charles, it's not..." _You're going to have to trust me. I want this, you, so badly, but I can't hurt you._

_You won't_ , Charles sends, the words spiky with disappointment. _I know what I can take, Erik. I don't need you to –_

"Don't make me, Charles." When Charles tries to move away, Erik pulls him back so they're fitted spine to belly, his hands flat on Charles's abdomen. "Look and see how much I want this, how much I want to bend you over and fuck you until you can't stand."

He doesn't know if Charles is looking or not, without that familiar brush across his cortex. Charles doesn't move, at least, holding perfectly still in Erik's arms. Erik takes it as, if not welcome, then at least acquiescence, and shifts so he can get a hand between them, pushing two fingers deep into Charles again as he thinks _do you think you could take three and come with my fingers in you? Or do you want my tongue again? Whatever you want, Charles, I'll give it to you._

With his hand angled the way it is, he occasionally touches his own cock, the head bumping against Charles's back and sliding wetly along the slope of it. Charles whimpers, his neck going slack as if it can't support itself anymore, his temple cradled against Erik's collar bone. "I'll get you off and get myself off just touching you," Erik promises, "and later when we're in bed I'll fuck you, and you'll be so open and wet for me, you'll be so good..."

"I will be," Charles promises hoarsely. He's rocking back and forth now, between the hand Erik has on his dick and the fingers buried in him, caught between two poles of coruscating pleasure. Erik's own cock is heavy between his legs, and all he can think of is the sweet ache of it and the heat clenching rhythmically around three of his fingers, and Charles thinking deliriously about how he's stretched so well it will only be the work of a minute for Erik to slick him up properly and push his thick cock up in him.

"What do you need?" Erik whispers in his ear. "Tell me what to do."

_Just keep doing this_ , Charles says. _I'm almost there..._ And yes, Erik can feel it now, that great rushing spiral of pleasure building up in Charles as he lets his pleasure slip between them, back and forth like mirrors in an elevator, reflecting this moment on and on forever. Erik's vocabulary starts to fail him now, as it always seems to when he sees Charles like this, like he's made a new language that only consists of the words "hot" and "good" and "perfect" and Charles's name, rearranged over and over in a sonnet that feels new every time.

He tucks his chin over Charles's shoulder, looking down the length of his body. His skin looks even paler set off against the white of the porcelain and the hectic flush that covers his upper chest. Erik wants to trace every freckle with his tongue, follow the descent of every single drop of water across his body. Erik's own hand looks larger than usual, foreign in this context, wrapped around Charles's gorgeous hard prick, red and wet and blood-hot; Charles comes, then, with Erik still watching, the white cream of his come fading from view almost immediately as the spray washes it down his legs and down the drain.

Charles leans back against him, almost a deadweight, and Erik kisses a line down his neck as he carefully removes his fingers. Charles groans, fumbling at his side for any piece of Erik he can touch, finally finding a hand to squeeze tightly before letting go. Erik wraps one arm around Charles's ribcage, using most of his strength to hold him steady, and he ruts against Charles's back with a harsh rhythm.

_Mmm_ , Charles says faintly, _let me just do something_ – and he's pulling away from Erik, and Erik almost wants to cry with frustration, but he trusts Charles, he does, and he did say _anything_.

Charles turns around in the cage of Erik's arms, stretching up to breathe a kiss the corner of Erik's mouth, and then he's slowly, carefully, kneeling down, sitting back on his haunches to stare up at Erik with wide blue eyes and an open mouth. His hair is plastered to the back of his head, black and silky, and Erik can't quite process the combination of innocence and debauchery Charles manages to give off.

Charles places his hands on Erik's hips. He leans forward to kiss the head of Erik's cock, but he doesn't suck Erik in like Erik is expecting. He grabs one of Erik's hands, instead, guiding it to wrap around himself.

_You can mark me like this_ , Charles sends, and he licks his lips.

"Fuck," Erik breathes. He can't look away, not from Charles's upturned face with its huge blue eyes, the lashes dark and wet, lips red from being bitten and licked, the two freckles standing out almost defiantly on the bridge of his nose. Charles is _waiting_ , blissfully relaxed from his orgasm, waiting so prettily for Erik to make that sweet face of his filthy with come.

_You're amazing_ , he tells Charles, putting maybe far too much of himself into that thought. Charles only smiles in return, sweet and demure but also sly, tongue lapping along his teeth, his lovely pale neck flexing as he swallows. He won't last long, Erik knows, not looking down at his own hand stroking his cock, Charles waiting eagerly for him. Even the anticipation, thinking what Charles will look like, ratchets need higher and higher until he's fucking shamelessly into his own fist and moaning Charles's name, obscenities, god knows what else.

His come stripes across Charles's face, over his eyelashes and the bridge of his nose, pearl-white against his mouth. Charles whimpers, _so good Erik, so good feeling you on me_ , and Erik gasps, nearly broken by the sight of Charles aglow and flawless, Erik's come painted over the most blissful expression he's ever seen. A few last drops spill from him, falling down the long line of Charles's throat, hanging in the notch between his collar bones.

The way they're situated, Erik's back is shielding Charles from most of the spray. So when Erik collapses on his knees, letting the water flow again, some of his come washes away, but not before he kisses Charles, a messy, licking, open-mouthed kiss to catch the taste of himself before they take it deeper, Charles gentling it a bit after a moment, lingering and calm as Erik catches his breath.

Charles pulls back at last with a _the water's getting cold_. Erik turns the water a little hotter, setting his power into the pipes to heat the water as best he can as Charles collects the washcloth and soap and they clean each other, tangled together and awkward, slow touches that Erik relishes almost as much as when they clutch desperately and carelessly at each other.

Erik turns off the water when they're both as clean as they're going to get. The bathroom is hot and steam-filled; Erik can't see his reflection in the mirror as he steps out of the tub to fetch towels. He gets his bathrobe from the hook on the back of the door, and manages to convince Charles to take it, but only on the condition that Erik himself won't get dressed right away, that he'll stay in a towel awhile, just for Charles's ogling entertainment. It's a sacrifice Erik's willing to make, worth it to see Charles wrapped up in the fluffy burgundy cotton, practically swallowed up in the cozy fabric like a prince in his robes. 

Charles heads to the living room to find Erik's rarely-used laptop, currently serving duty as an attractive paperweight on one of his shelves. Erik is already sitting on the bed, waiting, when Charles returns, and Charles settles himself comfortably into his arms before setting up the computer before them, signing on to a Netflix account. "Do you prefer a documentary about penguins, or a shitty horror movie?" Charles asks. He's leaning forward as he types, and Erik lays his hand wide across the span of Charles's back, leaning forward to nuzzle at the nape of his neck. 

"Honestly? I don't care."

He can't see Charles's face, but nonetheless he knows Charles is smiling. "Penguins it is, then." 

He clicks play and leans back into Erik's chest, sending a small pang of satisfaction as Erik's arms lightly encircle him. There's nothing especially surprising or fascinating about the documentary, but it's cute enough, Erik supposes, and Charles seems to enjoy it, his mind going relaxed and soft in a way Erik's rarely ever witnessed with him.

"It's like... a massage. Or warm porridge," Charles murmurs, midway through, trying to explain. "It's undemanding without being insultingly stupid, if you know what I mean."

Erik doesn't, quite, but Charles lets it go.

As the penguins are hunkered down to wait out a bitter Antarctic storm, their bodies like rows of little black columns in all the white, Charles turns a little in Erik's embrace, rubbing his cheek – deliberately, Erik's willing to bet – against Erik's bare chest. His eyes are serious, though, but whatever's put that somber line between his eyes is tucked down away from sight.

"Kurt's funeral is tomorrow," Charles says. He moves a little closer, a silent request for holding that Erik grants, tightening his thighs and arms around Charles. "It's not until the afternoon, and I need to go get something _decent_ to wear." The put-upon sigh isn't as much for Kurt as it is the annoyance of having to dress up; Erik remembers some choice early conversations about Charles showing up in things other than battered cardigans and t-shirts. "And I... I didn't know if you wanted to come."

_I want you to – I mean, I would like you to_ , is the silent addition, _but you don't have to_. Charles isn't looking at him, which is a sign, Erik's learned, that he's ashamed of himself, too upset to give Erik his usual attitude. That would change, though, if Erik responds too quickly with the answer that says he's _taking care_ of Charles, or being solicitous, and end with Charles pushing away and stalking off in silent affront.

"You realize if I go, I'd probably have a few things to say to your mother, and none of them polite," Erik says. It wins a laugh from Charles and a _who, you, the paragon of politeness?_ Erik pokes Charles in the ribs, although the heavy robe blunts most of the effect; still, Charles squirms and twitches. "And what would we tell people when they ask why you've got an older man with you?"

"To fuck themselves," Charles says, very succinctly.

It's not as easy as that, though. "You don't want our relationship to be public," Erik reminds him, "and unless we make it clear we're partners in the work sense... people are going to gossip." Erik's pretty sure Charles, not Kurt, will be the topic of conversation at the feeding frenzy that's going to be Kurt Marko's funeral, prodigal son returning home and all.

"We're good at that," Charles says. He lifts his head, finally, and looks Erik dead in the eye. "Please come, Erik."

"If you want me there," Erik says, "then of course I'm going to come."

Charles doesn't quite smile, but the tension on his face loosens, a kind of pleased relief.

On the computer screen, baby penguins are hatching from thousands of tiny eggs, painfully adorable balls of fluff. They're nothing compared to Charles, Erik thinks, and he reaches to ruffle Charles's still-wet hair into a messy tousle.

Charles swats his hand away with an indignant squawk. "Can I say, I _really_ prefer it when you're describing me to yourself to as dreamy, instead of fucking adorable? Honestly."

"I have never in my life thought of you as 'dreamy,'" Erik says with some amount of force, the quotation marks almost audible in his voice, and Charles snickers a little.

"It was a loose paraphrase."

Erik purposefully thinks at Charles a few other adjectives that describe him, but it makes Charles giggle more. He rests his cheek back against Erik's chest. After a minute, he says, "Now you're just making up words."

"'Sesquipedalian' is a real word," Erik says.

"Yes," Charles agrees, "but it means someone who likes long words. I mean, I don't hate long words, but I don't think it's exactly one of my defining characteristics." He pauses a second and says, "And psychopomp isn't even an adjective! In fact – you don't even know what that means, do you?"

"No," Erik says thoughtfully, "but to be fair, I don't actually care."

Charles huffs. Erik bites the inside of his cheek, and picks up one of Charles's hands, turning it to kiss the inside of his wrist. 

"Were you listening in when I talked to Munroe at the station?" Erik says. Charles sends him the mental equivalent of a shake of the head, and Erik continues, "She invited me out for a drink tomorrow. Us, actually. I assume some of the others from the station would be there as well."

"Surely it would be an unwise life decision for me to go into a bar with a handful of police officers," Charles says. "I remember a stern warning the last time I faked my ID for alcohol."

"I suspect they'd be willing to let it go this time," Erik says, thinking back to what Munroe had shared with him during the conversation.

"Oh," Charles says quietly, turning serious. Erik hopes he isn't thinking about how he'd escaped the fate of one of those institutions, unlike Scott or Madeline. He probably is, and trying to remind Charles that he'd endured his own kind of torture at his father's hands won't get Erik anything except Charles's anger.

"Summers might try to woo you away from me, though," Erik adds when it seems like Charles is going to wallow. "He's closer to your age."

"But he's probably not as good in bed, and I know he doesn't like chess," Charles says. It earns him another jab in the ribs, and gets Erik a cold foot against his shin when Charles kicks in protest. Charles calms a little, falling back into introspection again. Still, it doesn't seem like his mind is going to dark places, so Erik lets the silence ride until Charles finally says, "You know, I didn't... I didn't really know what it'd be like."

"What would what be like, baby?" Erik asks He runs his fingers up and down Charles's arm, hesitating where he can reach the skin at Charles's wrist and forearm.

"When we went to tell Monica Gray the news... that we'd found Lewis Mayfair and taken him into custody, and that he'd probably be charged with Siobhan's murder. She was so overjoyed and relieved." Charles pauses awkwardly. "She almost felt _sad_ , not really sad, but... too much happiness hurts, like sadness does. And I don't think I got it, what it's like to help people, until that."

Charles is, Erik thinks, almost desperately good. He cares, he cares so much despite the pain. Erik himself has always felt satisfaction, knowing he could bring some peace to people's lives, but for him it's always been about putting the world back in balance, seeing justice done, making the world that much safer. The anger had always kept him from feeling like Charles did, the pressing knowledge that, even though he'd caught the suspect, that there would be a trial, hopefully jail time at the end of it, the wrong had already been done.

"They're going to want to hail the conquering heroes tomorrow night," Erik tells him, rather than dwell in his own darkness. "Don't let Logan try to sucker you into a drinking contest."

"As if I'd drink against a man whose liver spontaneously regenerates even if he drinks rubbing alcohol," Charles says. He nuzzles against Erik's chest, happy again. Erik ruffles his hair, which earns him a bite perilously close to his nipple.

And that, of course, earns retaliation. Charles doesn't have much leverage, trapped as he is, so he has to writhe helplessly as Erik pokes at him, trying his best to shield ticklish places but, inevitably, leaving one open for exploitation. Finally Charles is laughing so hard he's crying, crying and breathless, and mentally clamoring for the mercy that Erik, out of kindness, grants him.

"Tosser," Charles grumbles once he's got his breath back, but he turns so he's kneeling between Erik's thighs, the laptop set to the side. Erik can't help but follow the line of the bathrobe down and down, past the pale expanse of Charles's chest, revealed by the collar which has fallen loose. The shadows start just above Charles's navel. "Do you want to know what psychopomp means?"

"Not really," Erik says, thinking mostly about kissing Charles.

"It means the one who guides souls to the other world," Charles informs him anyways, before leaning in, all warmth against Erik's cooling skin.

Erik hooks his palm around the back of Charles's neck, holding him in place as he licks up into his mouth. Charles bubbles over with approval.

_I know you're an old man, and allowances must be made_ , Charles says playfully, _but I was promised a round two..._

Erik growls, nipping sharply at Charles's lip, and Charles pulls away with a soft laugh. He raises himself on his knees again, looking down at Erik with the most remarkable smile, satisfied-yet-thrilled. After a minute he reaches down and undoes the hitch of the towel (barely still hanging on, anyway, after the tickling session), and unfolds the fabric to one side and then the other, leaving Erik completely bare to his eyes.

Charles's mouth opens a little – unconsciously, Erik is pretty sure – as he reaches out, tracing his finger down the length of Erik's swelling cock. 

"Do you ever feel like you have so many options, and they're all so good," Charles says slowly, "that it's hard to pick just one?"

"Let me decide this time, then," Erik says. He pushes himself up to give Charles another quick kiss, and then begins to untie the robe. Charles is already hard, which surprises Erik not at all. "I want to see your face this time. The whole time. Okay?"

Charles nods. Erik pushes the robe down off his shoulders, and leans in to kiss the new skin that he's uncovered.

He has to pull away after a minute, unfolding himself from Charles to climb to the edge of the bed. After what happened in the shower, he's determined to be ready; they're not going to be stopping in the middle here. He grabs the lube and a condom from his bedside drawer. He turns back to Charles to find that Charles has discarded the robe entirely and sprawled across the bed on his back, legs spread and knees bent. His head is turned to the side, watching Erik, gnawing at his lower lip while he sends Erik a soft mixture of admiration and anticipation.

"I'll take good care of you," Erik tells him. He hopes Charles catches the low pitch of his voice, the unspoken promise, _I'll make you feel so good._ From Charles's eyes, which are wide and dark, electric, he thinks Charles does.

He positions himself between Charles's knees, running a hand proprietarily along the slim, strong muscle of his calf, gripping his ankle, settling a thumb into the sensitive dip between the bone and tendon. Charles shudders and tugs against the restraint, raising his ass a little as he does so.

"I'm sure you're still stretched out from earlier," Erik says, as casually as he can manage with Charles spread out in front of him like this. As he promised, Charles isn't turning his head away as if to hide, but is spread out gloriously naked and unabashed, his eyes glassily fixed on Erik's face. His cock twitches, already so nice and hard for him, brushing against Charles's flat belly. "You took my fingers so nicely, Charles, you were so good... All three of them up in you until you came."

"Yes, Erik," Charles pants. "Could you please, just, I _need_ – "

With a calm he doesn't quite feel, already dizzy with Charles's desire filling his head like smoke, Erik slicks his fingers. "I still need to get you ready for me, baby," he tells Charles as he rubs lube around Charles's hole, pushing in two fingers carefully. Charles arches his back and keens, working his hips against Erik's hand. He's never liked to talk in bed, or at all, but there's something about telling Charles what he's going to do to him that intoxicates him, sending him pictures of what he wants, that boosts the high. "You'll feel so good once I'm through with you, I promise. You know you will, don't you?"

"Yes," Charles rasps out, "I will, I always do..."

Charles's hands are tangled tight in the bedspread. When Erik gives him a third finger, his toes visibly curl.

It makes Erik wish he had a memory like Charles's, photographic and immutable; he'd love to keep this image untouched forever. He presses a kiss to Charles's knee.

"You always take me so good," Erik says approvingly. "I wonder how much you could take, baby. Do you think you could take four? My whole hand? I bet you could, just swallow up my fist." Charles closes his eyes at that, his whole body trembling at the words, and Erik runs his free hand across Charles's belly. "Shh, I know, not today. I promised you my cock tonight."

_Yes_ , Charles says, and yes, that's a good sign, when Charles no longer bothers to speak aloud.

Erik sits back a little, to give himself a better view as he watches his fingers, twisting and fucking up into Charles, stretching out that lovely little hole for his cock. He shares the image with Charles, lingering over it lovingly, and Charles makes a soft noise as his cock jumps again and he clenches tight around Erik's fingers. Erik's mind is flooded with sensation, Charles trying not to give himself over to it completely, but fighting a losing battle. 

"Are you that close already?" Erik whispers. "Even after earlier? God, Charles, you're just insatiable, aren't you?"

A ragged noise from Charles's throat and a nod that's determinedly not shy. 

"You're going to be the death of me," Erik tells him. He bends over, arching his back so he can reach Charles's cock and lick off the sticky fluid that's gathered at the head. Charles shoves him away, almost violently, his _No_ vibrating through Erik's mind. 

_No_ , Charles repeats, _no, please, I want to come on your cock._

"You _are_ going to kill me," Erik manages. He's fully hard now, although not nearly as gone as Charles is. "I'll fuck you until you come from how good it is," he tells Charles, who mewls and nods fervently, "and I'll keep fucking you until I'm good and ready to come too."

_Anything_ , Charles says, rolling his hips and taking Erik's fingers in as far as he can get them. _Please just get in me now._

He gets his fingers out of Charles and the condom on – they'll have that conversation later, when they're thinking straight – and slicks himself up. Dazed already he stares down at himself, the thick length of his cock cradled in his palm, Charles's thighs and taint shiny with lube and flushed like all the rest of him is. He's already had Charles once tonight and he hasn't had him nearly enough; it's torture to go slow, as he steadies his cock and thumbs Charles's hole open, pushing himself in on Charles's exhale.

_So good_ , Charles thinks blurrily, eyes lidded and dark with adoration. His mind is like streams of lava, hot enough to incinerate, melting away Erik's control, full of molten images of what Erik looks like between his legs, how it feels having Erik filling him, the slow, crawling pace that has Charles coming out of his skin. Erik gets Charles's legs hiked up, hooking them around his back so Charles's heels dig into his ass. The angle pushes him deeper and Charles yelps, the cry of surprise mellowing into a heartfelt moan and a _oh so very lovely, so perfect you're in as deep as you can go aren't you._

"Mmm," Erik hums in affirmation. "Is that enough for you?" Before Charles can answer, he begins to slide out, just an inch; Charles's body fights him on it, but Charles cries out in pleasure again when Erik thrusts back in, coming home. Erik starts a steady rhythm, as slow as he can stand – which is slower than Charles can take, as he proves, scratching his nails down Erik's chest and pleading with him to hurry up. When the pleading doesn't work, Charles turns to orders; but even Charles's most arrogant and authoritative tone is less than effective when his voice is shaking like this.

Erik feels almost like laughing, but instead he only bends forward to kiss Charles, tender and soft in contrast to the heavy pounding in his ass. Charles arches up, trying to find the friction of Erik's belly against his cock, but Erik moves away too quickly for him to get any relief from it. _On my cock, you said_ , he reminds Charles.

Charles groans again. The thoughts he's transmitting to Erik are more emotions than actual words, but Erik can clearly hear the _bastard_ hidden within them.

He hikes Charles's legs up again, feet over his shoulders, pushing Charles's thighs up against his chest, so he's effectively folded in half. _Holy shit_ , Charles thinks, clear and distinct for one moment before Erik loses him again to the fog of his pleasure. Erik is hitting his prostate now, on nearly every stroke, and Charles's cock is wet and glistening from the amount of pre-come he's produced. Charles has turned his head to the side, arm thrown across his face; he's no longer making any noise, but Erik can see his mouth working silently, actively straining through the pleasure he's feeling. His neck is tense, exposed, flushed pink, covered with faded marks that just serve to show how endlessly enticing Erik finds him.

Erik takes a deep breath through his nose, and slows his thrusts down even further as he looks down to the place where he and Charles are joined. He traces the base of his cock, the rim of Charles's hole, listening to Charles's hiss. He pulls out just far enough that when he pushes back in, he can fit his lubed finger in beside his cock, filling Charles even more.

Charles cries out again, arching up off the bed with a mental urge for Erik to hold still, and Erik obeys, holding himself like a statue as Charles shakes to pieces, his ass spasming helplessly around Erik as his untouched cock spills over his belly. When Charles has fallen back onto the bed, chest heaving with exertion, Erik carefully removes his finger, lets Charles's legs fall back down to the bed, and bends over to kiss him.

Charles can't manage much in the way of reciprocating, breathing too heavily for anything more than receiving what Erik gives him. His satisfaction spreads through the room, filling it up with warmth and haziness and a disbelief at how good that was that Charles almost seems vulnerable, caught off-guard.

Erik gathers him close, heedless of the mess of come splattered across Charles's belly and chest. Charles whines, so sensitive after coming, but doesn't let Erik pull away. His poor, dear body shakes, sides straining for breath, sheened with sweat and decorated with the marks Erik's put on him today. Even boneless and sated as he is he has Erik trapped, held in the clutch of his body and his legs and arms cradling Erik so he can't get away, even if he wants to.

_Always so good_ , Charles thinks. The words have the texture of exhaustion, rough changing to smooth and blurry at the edges. _Did you..?_

"Not yet," Erik says, and shifts his hips pointedly. Charles whimpers and _stretches_ , so Erik feels him everywhere, his body trembling like a long wave, every minute twitch of muscle and skin. Absently Charles toys with one of Erik's nipples, tweaking and pinching until Erik hisses and the tender flesh swells up. _You should get off now_ , Charles sends as Erik rocks against him. _Come in me, you want it so bad you're hurting, aren't you?_

Yes and no – yes, but it's such a good hurt, like pressing down a bruise just to feel the ache. And since it's the second time tonight, he doesn't quite feel as desperate for release as he otherwise would. If Charles wanted him to, Erik thinks he could last for ages, riding the edge so sweetly, riding _Charles_... The impression he gets back from Charles at that thought is mixed, confused, fear and an exhausted desire twined together tightly.

Erik smiles down at him, wide, baring all his teeth. "That's a no, then?" he inquires with a snap of his hips that makes Charles very nearly squeal. "What happened to you being insatiable, hm?"

Charles turns his head, straining faintly to bite at the nearest part of Erik's skin he can reach – his forearm, in this case, holding his weight as he moves against Charles. "Too much," Charles says. "Come on – I want to make you feel like I feel – "

"Show me," Erik whispers. He kisses Charles's temple, feeling Charles sigh beneath him, and then it's as if something in his mind opens up at Charles's beckoning, spinning him down into pleasure and delight. He could lose himself in this, lose himself entirely in Charles, Erik thinks, torn between scared and amazed, but – _I've got you_ , Charles promises, _I won't let you fall_ , and so Erik lets himself go completely.

He comes back to himself, collapsed on top of Charles, sweaty and messy and sated. His head is against Charles's chest and Charles is playing with his hair, stroking through it with his fingers, crooning something wordless and almost inaudible that he cuts off as soon as he notices Erik's attention.

"Hey there," Charles says softly.

Erik manages to lift himself on his elbows enough that he can look Charles in the face. "My god, Charles. That was – " He shakes his head and blows out a breath. "I don't know if that even counts as sex."

Charles rolls his eyes, though he's still grinning. "I think your cock would argue differently."

Erik pulls out of Charles with a groan, both for the remark and the fact that his muscles have gone liquid and rebellious, and movement is the last thing they want to do. When he can manage it, he stands up on unsteady legs and removes the condom. As he crosses the few feet to his wastebasket he says, "I can't imagine why anyone would ever have sex without telepathy."

"I hope you're not intending on screwing any other telepaths," Charles says – mildly enough, but there's an edge to it, almost hidden, and Erik glances back at him in surprise.

Charles is staring at him, chin tilted defiantly – a strange contrast to his rumpled hair and come-marked torso and the disarray of the sheets surrounding him. Erik's caught by him, so fiercely, he's sure far too many perilous things are written on his own face and scrawled across the surface to his mind for Charles to read.

"No," he says anyway. He drops the used condom in the trash with a grimace and, already unsettled, goes to the bathroom to collect damp cloths for both of them. When he returns, Charles has lost some of his defiance and looks – well, lost instead. He lies still as Erik sits down next to him, submitting to the warm cloth on his skin, hissing a little as Erik cleans his cock and balls, lower to wipe away the last sticky traces of lube from between his legs.

"You're one of the biggest pains in the ass I've ever met," he informs Charles, not looking at him as he begins to clean himself. The damp cloth starts off warm on his skin but cools quickly. "But I'm not planning on finding another telepath to have sex with, seeing as I, for reasons that escape me, happen to like your mind a lot."

With his free hand, he brushes Charles's temple, where Erik had kissed him earlier. Charles allows it, even tilting his head into the caress. His telepathy flickers like warm, transitory sunlight over Erik's awareness. "I love it," Erik continues, "even if it drives me crazy half the time."

"Landmines," Charles says a bit shakily, but before Erik can correct him, continues: "It's just... for a while the only people interested in me were people interested in my telepathy. That way," he clarifies. "I guess it would be like being with someone who only wanted your metallokinesis to chain them to the bed. I could just _know_ someone's kinks, or give them their fantasy, or whatever. But I didn't really matter."

Erik can't think of a response. Nothing, at least, that is in anyway useful. He lets himself nurse his anger a little as he rises again to drop the cloths into the hamper. When he returns to the bed, Charles shifts in a way that Erik interprets as him wanting Erik to lie down and hold him, but being unwilling to ask for it. Erik does it anyway.

When they're curled up together, Erik pulls the sheets and covers back up over them. Into Charles's ear, he says, "You know I think your mutation is extraordinary. But it's..." Erik hesitates. "It's part of _you_ , part of who you are. I can't separate you and your gift. I wouldn't want to try." He presses a dry kiss to Charles's neck, and Charles sighs.

_I don't mean to keep doing this_ , Charles thinks, tinged with regret. _I'm sorry I'm such a mess all the time._

"Don't apologize," Erik says. "You're fine."

Charles says, half-into his pillow, "You're too good to me." And after a moment, even more quietly: "I'm scared of getting used to that."

There's nothing to say to that, really. Nothing that wouldn't be the equivalent of tearing out Erik's heart and dropping it on the floor in front of Charles, and he _can't_ do that, not now. He couldn't handle it, and Charles could even less. Instead, Erik inhales a deep breath through his nose, and he holds Charles tight until they both, finally, fall asleep.


	7. Chapter seven: Sunday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short content/trigger warning: The sex in this chapter is 100% consensual, but a character ends up being (inadvertently) triggered by memories of past physical and psychological trauma as a result. If you want to skip that section, stop reading at "Charles huffs out a breath before shoving Erik away, with a roll of his eyes. "Don't start anything you don't have time to finish, you jerk," he says sternly" and continue at ""Give my regrets to everyone?" Charles says when Erik reemerges."

After the quiet end to last night, and with the memory of their conversation riding uncomfortably in the periphery of Erik's mind, he half-expects Charles to tell him he'll go to Kurt's funeral by himself. Erik can feel his own guards going up, keeping Charles at arm's length although they still take a few moments on waking up to be quiet with each other before they get up, Erik to start breakfast and Charles to shower.

The slight distance doesn't stop Charles from smiling and leaning up to kiss Erik on the lips when he sees that Erik's got the kettle out along with a box of the tea Charles likes and has kept in the break room at the station. They still eat sitting close together, Erik swiping bits of cereal from Charles's bowl and Charles helping himself to the melon in Erik's fruit salad. Erik can't decide if the distance is less this way, or if he feels it more acutely, like they're trying to reach for each other and their fingers just brush.

And they still go clothes shopping together, the experience amusing enough to smooth over their rough edges. Erik does blink, though, when Charles (with a resigned sigh) directs him to Fifth Avenue. He half-considers making a comment about Charles negotiating a higher consulting rate with Moira, but Charles is already radiating a peculiar mixture of unhappiness and determination, parts of him distorting in such a way that suggests he's looking more at the past than the present.

Following along as Charles leads them into a shop with an expensive-sounding French name and expensive-sounding people hovering to wait on them – Erik gets a curious look before Charles diverts their attention – Erik wonders how, exactly, it is he's grown so attuned to Charles. It's not his observational skills, although those have certainly come in handy, it's something deeper, a knowledge that surpasses the kind of knowing he's used to. He can _feel_ Charles, see the different shades of his mind, the varying surfaces of it, the voices that change as Charles's moods do. And he's not entirely sure if Charles is always aware of it.

Erik is guided to a comfortable chair to sit in while Charles is whisked away. He's still turning over the problem (if that's even the right word for it) when Charles reappears, suited up. Erik's barely ever seen Charles is anything but jeans or casual trousers, t-shirts and sweaters and oxfords. It makes a difference, definitely, he has to admit, though he's still distracted enough that when Charles asks his opinion, he can't come up with anything but "It looks fine."

Charles gives him a look. "When I ask you what you think about something," he says, "it's because I actually want to _know_. Don't be an idiot."

"Fine," Erik says, straightening up in the chair. He takes a moment to give Charles a more careful and thorough once-over, and then states conclusively, "You look like you're dressing up to go out to dinner with your grandfather to celebrate your high school graduation."

Charles snorts, even as the shop assistant to the side looks vaguely pained. "That's better," Charles says, and he turns to the assistant and says something about wanting a more mature look, before they both disappear again.

The next suit is the wrong color entirely, somehow managing to give Charles's skin an awkward sallow glow, but the third is excellent, and Erik says so. Charles looks older in it, and certainly more confident, more in control. It frames his body in a lovely way that makes Erik want to run his hands all over him, though Erik chooses not to share that piece of information out loud. 

Charles pays with a credit card, different from what Erik's seen him use in the past; he handles it gingerly, with two fingertips, like just touching it makes him uncomfortable. "That's one thing over with, at least," he says to Erik.

"Do you need to do anything else?" Erik asks. "Maybe a haircut?"

"Har har." Charles elbows him. It earns them a quizzical look from the sales assistant, but faced with a paying customer – and one paying with a Palladium Card, Erik sees from the dull gold rectangle in Charles's fingers – he keeps his mouth shut. "There are limits to what I'm willing to endure for Kurt."

_In case you can't tell, I'm not looking forward to this_ , Charles adds silently as he collects his garment bag and a recommendation for a shoe store, which the assistant supplies with an unctuous smile. _Kurt didn't do what my father did to me... He didn't have the same kind of leverage_ , and that meant love, the kind of love Erik imagines a boy like Charles had been desperate to give, _but he found other ways to be terrible_.

There's a stepbrother in there too, but Erik doesn't force the issue. Charles stews quietly as he gets fitted for a pair of shiny black shoes in a store that's all mahogany and copper and polish. It's the kind of place that doesn't have prices on anything, where he'd been measured and assessed within a second of stepping inside. He knows how to carry himself, to insert himself in places where he doesn't belong, and so the assistants here don't question his presence, or why he's with a man clearly much younger than he is.

_Perhaps they think I'm your kept boy_ , Charles suggests, although his tone is sly rather than offended. Erik can't help but be amused, because shouldn't it be the other way around? _Maybe I'll do that, then_ , Charles muses while the assistant bustles off with the box of shoes Charles has selected. _Keep you in a little pied-à-terre, in the style to which you wish to become accustomed, and have sex with you all the time and take you out to galleries and premieres to show you off._

_Until you get bored with me and throw me over,_ , Erik adds. _For someone newer and more exciting._

_Oh, I don't know_ , Charles says, sounding flippant. _I think I'll keep you for a while._

Erik shakes his head, tapping his fingers against his thigh in an uneven rhythm. 

The shoes are duly bought, as well. "There," Charles says when they make their way back outside. "Now I'll be able to appear publically without bringing shame on my family name, and succeed in looking exactly like every other person there."

"I sincerely doubt that," Erik says dryly. He leads Charles back to the car, stopping himself at the last moment from laying his hand at the small of Charles's back as he does so. Charles gives him a faint smile, looking up at him from underneath his lashes; Erik ignores it.

"I'm sorry I can't help with the driving," Charles says, as they head back to Erik's apartment. "I would have just taken the train and a taxi to the funeral home, if I were going alone."

"I like driving."

"Hm, you would, wouldn't you?" Charles says, squinting over at him consideringly. "It must be lovely, being surrounded by all this metal all the time, under your control."

"Too much plastic nowadays," Erik says, "but the basic point still stands."

There's leftover pizza in Erik's fridge from the other night. They eat in the bedroom, Charles sitting cross-legged on the mattress and making suggestions as Erik puts together his own outfit. 

_No, I like the other suit better_ , Charles says when his mouth is too full to talk. _It makes your ass look even more spectacular than it is._

"I thought I wasn't going to be arm candy," Erik remarks. He puts the current trousers and jacket, a standard black, back on their hangers and in the closet. The deep charcoal ones come out along with a crisp white shirt and a dark maroon tie. "This isn't too exuberant or whatever the fuck?"

"It's sober but not monochrome," Charles says as if he's reciting something. He might be; Erik imagines he'd imbibed propriety and etiquette with his mother's milk. Looking at him, back in his battered jeans and a red t-shirt with an eighties cartoon logo on it, inhaling his second piece of pizza like he hasn't eaten in a day, it's hard seeing the boy Sharon Xavier must wish she could have raised. Erik's fairly certain he'll love Charles no matter his manifestation, but the Charles he's come to know over the past month and a half seems like the true one.

_You're going to make me blush_ , Charles says irritably. It's too late, because he already is blushing, pink spreading across the bridge of his nose and his cheeks. _Knock it off!_

"Adorable," Erik teases, just to hear Charles's indignant "Oi!" When he draws close, his dress clothes safe on his bureau, Charles is mock-glaring up at him, biting his lip to keep back a smile.

"I'm going to have to kiss you," Erik tells him, thumbing at Charles's lip to pull it out from under his teeth. It wins him a bite in return, Charles fastening onto his thumb and not letting go.

"That's just rude," Erik says, shaking his head. When he pulls his hand away again, Charles lets him go, though he follows Erik's thumb with a snap of his teeth. "You are a monster, you know."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Charles says airily. He scoots up suddenly, kissing Erik before Erik can do it to him, and then breaking it off just as quickly to roll to the edge of the bed and stand up. "You're going to distract me – -”

"Me distract _you_?" Erik says disbelievingly, but Charles talks over him.

" – And then we'll be late. Stay away." Charles points two fingers at his eyes and then turns his hand to point them at Erik instead. 

Erik huffs out a surprised chuckle. "Fine, then. Are you going to dress before we leave?"

"It'll just get wrinkled on the road," Charles says with a shrug. "We'll stop by a McDonald's or something a few miles away and change in the bathroom."

"If you say so," Erik says.

Back in the car, Charles investigates the meager tape selection in the glove compartment, judging and finding Erik's musical taste lacking, before condescending to put on Nirvana, setting the volume aggressively loud. Erik adjusts it, almost immediately, to merely annoyingly loud. There's no chance of conversing this way, at least not out loud. Of course, Erik could always speak to Charles through thoughts, but he has the distinct impression that Charles would rather not talk right now. It's not that he's withdrawn or depressed, but he definitely seems thoughtful, and Erik thinks he's probably using the trip as a chance to brace himself for what's coming next. 

_Next_ is Charles disappearing into a diner bathroom to change and reappearing like a vision but in bloodless black and white, his tie a perfect four-in-hand and his hair (for the first time in Erik's memory) brushed back away from his face. The severe black brings out the electric quality of his eyes and his red mouth. He's beautiful, elegant, utterly uncomfortable until he catches Erik looking and straightens his shoulders, his spine infused with Charles's deceptively-malleable steel.

"Will I do?" Charles asks, tugging at his collar.

"More than," Erik says. There are other things he wants to tell Charles but they're pent up on the other side of the knot in his throat. Absently, he resettles the points of Charles's collar where they lap over onto the crisp black of his suit jacket, the only affection that's safe to show out in the open. _Whenever you want to leave_ , he reminds Charles. In his opinion, _whenever_ can't come soon enough.

_I know, darling_ , Charles replies, a warm curl of thought. It's the last time he says anything, either telepathically or orally, until they get to the cemetery – Charles had decided to skip the memorial ( _too much hypocrisy, I can't bear the thought of being in a room with people who are as terrible as he was_ ) and attend the interment – and they're confronted with a small, moving sea of men and women in black. The women are all clutching elegant handkerchiefs, but their grief, so far as Erik can tell, hasn't disturbed their neatly-coiffed hair or makeup.

Grief hasn't made a dent in Sharon Xavier either. He can see her standing slightly apart, fielding condolences and well-wishes. A huge young man, maybe a few years older than Charles although the heavy bones of his face make him seem even older, looms by her side. Like a hunting wolf, his gaze ranges up over Sharon's stylish blonde head and toward the gates, and a wolfish smile curls his lips when he sees them.

_Cain_ , Charles says tensely. Erik can't see any tension in Charles's face, although it's telegraphing itself almost directly to Erik's hindbrain.

_You're okay_ , he sends back, hoping Charles takes it for an order and not reassurance.

_I'd almost forgotten how unpleasant his mind is_ , Charles says as they make their way through the crowd toward Sharon. There are plenty of people looking at them – at Charles, more accurately – half of them whispering to each other semi-discreetly, though no one actually addresses a word of greeting to Charles.

Sharon turns her head toward them as they approach. Up close she's just as perfectly put together, but Erik can see the glassiness and vagueness in her eyes. _She's drugged up to the gills_ , Charles informs him. _All prescription, mind you, just to help her get through this difficult time. Dr. Prescott is an angel, don't you know_.

"Charles," Sharon says, a little thickly. "I was afraid you were going to forget your duties. And, oh, you dressed properly, too; how nice." She tilts her head, and Charles obediently kisses her cheek before stepping back.

"Mother," he says. "My condolences. And to you, Cain." He nods in the direction of the young man, who's still wearing the same obnoxious smirk. 

"You brought a friend," Cain says.

Charles glances toward him only briefly, then keeps his attention on his mother. "Mother, you remember Detective Erik Lehnsherr. He's my partner at the police department."

"Of course," Sharon murmurs, holding out her hand for Erik to shake. It's like a dead fish in his grip.

Cain holds out his hand as well, and his shake is anything but limp, erring on the side of punishing and nearly painful. "How nice for Charles to bring home his partner," Cain says. There's an ugly laughing emphasis on the last word that makes Erik narrow his eyes. 

"With condolences from the New York Police Department," Erik says smoothly. "We're very sorry for your loss."

"Oh," Sharon says, laying a beringed and braceleted hand on her breast. She actually sounds touched, or affected, despite the heavy overlay of the drugs. "That is... well, thank you, Detective Lehnsherr." She darts a quick look at Charles, some of the gratitude falling away. "The ceremony is starting in ten minutes, Charles, and there's a reception at the house after. There may be people here you know."

_She thinks I brought you here to grill her some more about the Lockwoods_ , Charles tells him as they head off. Cain hovers in the background like an unpleasant specter, although he doesn't venture too close. Charles's path brings them into the general vicinity of more expensive-looking men and women, most of them around Sharon's age or a bit older, and all of them with the plush, vaguely interested look of people dragged outside on a cool early spring day. 

"Dr. Kaufman," Charles says, approaching a paunchy man in an overcoat. "I'm not sure you remember me, but I'm..." _I remember him; he and my father designed experiments together. For me. He's retired, one of the major stockholders in the company now._ Erik remembers, in time, to tamp his anger down, to smile (perhaps showing a bit too much tooth) and shake hands, to explain about the department's concern for the family, its devotion to community. _And Mr. Tallis and Ms. Tallis... he was the company's chief compliance officer._ Another person, a woman, elegant in black Chanel. _Marketer. She promoted the first round of drugs my father formulated, for decreasing a telepath's receptiveness._

Charles's face hasn't moved from its smile, the polite, neutral one Erik's used to seeing while he scans someone he doesn't entirely trust. He's so at ease here, smiling and laughing over shared memories, ruefully admitting it had been some years – had a bit of a wild hair, left college to try some new things, has got some plans for the future now, can't wait to grow up but not too fast. Erik watches as a stranger wearing Charles's face moves through the crowd, trailing him along like a shadow.

There's something sobering about it, Erik reflects. In the past week and a half, he's gotten so used to seeing that hidden part of Charles, the one that (accurately or not) Erik can't help but think of as the _real_ Charles, that it's easy to start to overlook how much Charles relies on his different roles, how essential they are to him. The prodigal son, smooth and slick, working his way among his father's colleagues is just another part of the same pattern as the snotty teenage punk that was Erik's partner, or the charming flirt beloved by half the station. 

The Charles Erik knows – it could be an act, too, hypothetically, but Erik is sure, completely, one hundred percent solid in his knowledge that it's not. What Charles shows him when they're alone is that vulnerable core that those masks keep from view; it's too messy and imperfect and painful to be anything but real. 

Something clenches tight in Erik's chest, like a fist squeezing his heart, and he's quiet and thoughtful as he follows Charles to stand by the graveside. The ceremony itself is unremarkable, requiring almost no attention from Erik, and on the short side. Sharon, to Erik's surprise, appears to manage to squeeze out a tear or two, even turning to rest her head against Cain's shoulder while he pats her back with an affectedly stoic expression.

_He’s enjoying the attention_ , Charles says pensively. _He always liked feeling important._

Erik manages to keep in the derisive snort that threatens to escape him.

_I can't blame him for not mourning Kurt. Kurt never hurt me – not physically, I mean – but Cain wasn't so lucky._ There's a wave of something like regret, tempered with a still-burning anger. _You know, when they first got married, I was so pleased that I was going to have a brother. I wanted so badly for him to like me, I tried so hard, but everything I did made him feel more contempt for me. And then I tried ignoring him, but... he hated that even more._ A flash of memory, Charles covered with bruises, washing his face in the mirror, wincing as he gently probes around his black eye.

_He hit you_? Erik says.

_Don't feel sorry for me_ , Charles responds sharply. _I got even. I did terrible things to him, Erik. That's why I know enough to be scared of what I can do if I don't keep to my limits._

_Never regret what you have to do to save yourself, Charles._ He knows exactly what he would have done to Shaw if his powers hadn't abandoned him; he'd known what he'd wanted even as he'd cursed and pleaded and sobbed while Shaw laughed. Charles doesn't seem entirely happy with Erik's response, as if Erik's failed to grasp the full meaning of what Charles was trying to tell him, but he lets it go.

In front of them, the minister is saying the final words to consign Kurt Marko's earthly remains to the ground. The sunlight, stronger now with the season's changing, gilds the edges of the coffin, which is a glossy black, the locks steel. While everyone else around them sighs and summons up a few tears, Charles remains stoically silent, his mind curiously tranquil, as if he's reached his own conclusion. 

Erik tunes out the minister's prayers – he's certain that, if there were an afterlife, a person like Marko is beyond intercession – in favor of memory, his mother's funeral, which had been quiet, simple, her friends and the members of the synagogue. He remembers that day as clearly as if he has some of Charles's eidetic memory, with its weather just like this, the trees only beginning to bud, his mother's simple coffin. He had sat shiva at his rabbi's house while the state argued over what was to be done with him, a grief-stricken, angry boy _with mutant abilities_.

A rustle in the crowd distracts him. It's Sharon, stepping forward to toss the first handful of earth into the open grave along with a long-stemmed rose, its thorns trimmed away. Cain follows with the second. The minister intones "amen" and gives the benediction to murmurs from the congregation. Slowly the knot of people gathered around the gravesite disperses, the ambient noise rising as they begin to talk quietly among themselves. In the background a few people are wandering, taking pictures. Tourists, Erik realizes; it's that kind of cemetery, where some of the rich and famous have come to rot.

_People are strange_ , Charles remarks while he fields handshakes and hugs from various mourners. He submits to a rib-creaking embrace from a kindly old lady, who introduces herself as a second cousin and seems to be one of the few people here who is genuinely sad. _Some of these people have spent the entire ceremony thinking about their own losses – parents, siblings, friends – and grieving them. But so many of them knew about me, or at least suspected where my father was getting all his data, the drug tests so they could speed up FDA approval, and they look at me, and there's... there's nothing._

_Denial_ , Erik thinks. _Never underestimate the ability of people to ignore anything that's not shoved directly in front of their faces. Especially if it would mean disrupting their own lives somehow._

Sharon floats over to ask Charles if he'd like to ride over to the house with her and Cain; after all, there's more than enough room in the car. Erik feels an immediate surge of anger at the idea of being separated from Charles, and Charles sends him a strong flash of irritation in response as he tells his mother that won't be necessary. 

"It's almost over," Charles says when they're back in Erik's car. "We'll stay a few minutes, that's all, and then... that's it." When Erik glances over at him, he's looking out the window, still holding himself ramrod-straight.

The Xavier house hasn't grown any less imposing or theatrical in the last few days. Inside, the reception feels more like a cocktail party than a funeral, Erik thinks. Instead of a row of homemade casseroles set on a table, there's waiters with hors d'oeuvres. The huge room is filled with people, broken into small groups, clutching their wineglasses and talking quietly.

"I'll fetch us drinks," Erik says softly to Charles, and Charles merely nods, his cool gaze still taking in the scene thoughtfully, roving over the crystal and gold and fine wood, the people gathered under the afternoon light. What, precisely, he's looking at, Erik doesn't entirely know.

The two minutes Erik is away from him is, apparently, long enough for Cain Marko to pounce; when Erik returns he's got Charles pressed into a corner, blocked from exiting by Cain's larger frame. Charles looks bored, more than anything.

" – surprised you even bothered," Cain is saying as Erik approaches. "It's not like you ever gave him any respect when he was alive."

"Hello, Erik," Charles says, and Cain turns his head to give Erik a scowl. Erik silently hands Charles a glass, making his way to stand by Charles's side.

"Right," Cain says, "your partner. Really, Charles, don't you think it's a little too on the nose to flaunt your daddy issues boyfriend at your stepfather's funeral?"

Charles smiles, the kind of smile that, back when Erik had first seen it, had gotten his hackles up. It's snotty, all-knowing, so perfectly _condescending_ that formulating a response to it is impossible. It's the smile, Erik knows now, that says there's no getting through Charles's defenses, not without (Erik has to hide a smile, thinking of his own metaphor) losing a limb, or something rather more valuable.

_He doesn't get to have you_ , Charles sends to Erik, the words laced with fierce protectiveness, even as he says to Cain, "I've always found your interest in my sex life disturbing, Cain. You should really talk about that with your therapist... it might be why the only sex you can get is the sort you have to pay for. And why the White Plains police have fielded a number of complaints about your behavior."

Cain actually steps back at that, grip tightening on the glass he's holding. Charles's smile shades into sweetness, but with more than a hint of threat at the edges where it's visible above the rim of the glass he's raised to drink. Cain's huge, a wall of muscle and ill temper; a hand twitches as if he wants to strike Charles, but a warning tightening of his watch around the offending wrist has Cain freezing. He glares at Erik with dark, indignant eyes.

"I bet Charles was real anxious for you to rob that cradle, wasn't he?" Cain spits.

"Mostly I came to get a look at the sort of person who would try to set up an NYPD consultant as a viable suspect for murder," Erik says idly. He takes a sip of his own drink, a wine that tastes as expensive as the crystal it's served in. "Although it sounds like I should talk to the White Plains police some more."

There's real hatred in Cain's eyes. "A consultant," Cain repeats. "I forgot to congratulate you on that, Charles. Who would have thought being a freak would come in handy for you someday? It's good to know you're not _completely_ useless."

He's reaching, Erik can tell, desperate to have one of his barbs land _somewhere_ , but Charles still merely looks bored. He raises one eyebrow and says, "I suppose I do have my moments. Now, if you'll excuse me, I see Mother over there..."

He has to physically edge by Cain, body brushing against his when Cain refuses to back up and gracefully left him out. He doesn't stop Charles, either, though, doesn't do or say another thing, just stands there looking furious in contrast to Charles's calm and collected exterior. Erik nods once at Cain, a tense warning, before following Charles.

_You're spectacular, do you know that?_ Erik says to him as they cross the room.

_Oh, shut up_ , Charles says; there's affection in it, combined with a sort of relief, a release of at least a little of the tension Charles has been carrying with him since they arrived. _I think we're just about done here, anyway. As soon as I give my goodbyes to Mother, we can go._

_Good_ , Erik thinks, deep and fierce. 

Sharon is surrounded by a flurry of other middle-aged women, but they part immediately, fluttering off to the side as Charles approaches. Sharon looks almost surprised to see Charles; Erik wonders if she had already forgotten he was here. 

"Hello, darling," she says, giving him a somewhat confused smile. 

"Hello, Mother," Charles says. "Detective Lehnsherr and I do have to be off, I'm afraid." He picks up her hand, the one that's not clutching her drink like it's a life saver keeping her afloat, and bends to kiss it. 

"You're not staying?" Sharon blinks at Charles. Her mascara has smudged a little, shadowing her eyes, and her lipstick is now mostly on the rim of her glass. "It's such a long drive back into the city..."

_Is she serious?_ Erik asks. It's an involuntary question, but he's so surprised he can't help it. Sharon clearly can't abide her son for more than a few minutes at a time; he can't imagine why she'd ask for Charles to stay.

_No_ , Charles sends back, the word tinged with regret. _She's on autopilot. She shouldn't be drinking, not with what her doctor's given her._ Now that Erik looks more closely, Sharon does seem nearly anesthetized. He wonders what she's seeing when she looks at Charles, and Charles says _Someone she's related to. When she's like this, she doesn't really mind my telepathy. She doesn't mind anything._

"I can't, Mother," Charles says gently, far more gently than she deserves. "Detective Lehnsherr and I have another obligation to attend to. I'll come up again soon, though; we need to talk about Father's business."

"You'll be all grown up soon," Sharon says. She detaches her hand from Charles's and pats his cheek. Charles smiles thinly, but doesn't budge. "Do come up for a day soon. It'll be so good to catch up; it feels like I haven't seen you in ages."

She'd seen her son less than a week ago, the first time in five years of separation. Erik compresses his fury, sparing a wistful thought for the scrap metal in his desk at work, watching as Sharon kisses Charles on the cheek and accepting her hand with as much grace as he can muster. Sharon doesn't seem to recognize him, or if she does, her previous memories of him – mutant, working-class, investigating her husband for possible wrongdoing – don't seem to register. The moment Charles gives her one last good-bye she has her glass raised to her lips again, and another crowd of well-wishers around her.

_They don't really wish her well_ , Charles tells him as they collect their overcoats and he fields a few last farewells. _If they did, they would have taken away her second drink and put her to bed._ Unaccountably, he sounds indignant about that. _I should – I should go back and take care of her this once._

He starts to turn back towards the door they just exited, and Erik reaches out to stop him, grabbing his wrist and holding it tight. Charles stares down at Erik's hand with a faint air of surprise; it's the first time they've touched since before they arrived at the cemetery. 

"No," Erik says, firmly. It comes out too forceful, he's sure, too much like a command or an order, and he adds quickly, in a low tone, "You've done enough. You've done more than enough. You don't owe anyone in there anything, you're not responsible for them – just let me take you home. Please."

Charles hesitates, for a longer time than Erik is expecting. It's bizarre, seeing uncertainty on Charles's face, after his masterful performance this afternoon, nothing but confidence and ease. Finally, Charles nods.

Erik lets out a breath, and releases Charles's wrist. They walk back to the car in silence.

Charles waits about until Erik's been driving about five minutes before he lets out a deep breath. Glancing over at him, Erik can visibly see his posture relax as some of the stiffness and tension leaves his body. Charles scrabbles at his tie; once it's off he throws it in the backseat without even looking. Erik can't help a thought about how insanely expensive that scrap of fabric is, tossed aside into the dust and dirt like nothing. Charles takes off his jacket, undoing the top few buttons of his shirt and exposing his neck and collarbone. He leans forward then in his seat, hunched over himself, and runs his fingers through his hair, ruffling it up violently.

When he sits back up, he looks like himself again – if, Erik has to allow, a little more wild-eyed than usual.

"That's better," Charles says, a little breathlessly.

Erik turns off the road into the nearest parking lot, some bank or supermarket, and turns off the engine. He adjusts the seat, pushing it back so there's more room between him and the steering wheel and dashboard. He unbuckles his seat belt and says, "Come here."

Charles stares at him. "We're in the car," he reminds Erik. "It's off-limits."

"I know," Erik says. "I don't care." He pats his thigh.

Charles bites his lip. After a moment, he unbuckles his own seatbelt and crawls over the divide, settling himself into Erik's lap, tucking his head against Erik's chest. Erik rests his chin atop Charles's head and holds him close.

_You're too good to waste yourself on them_ , he tells Charles, putting as much conviction as he can into the words. They're what he told himself after his mother died, when the torrents of fear and hatred had threatened to drown him. He doesn't know how Charles will take what he has to say, if he'll see it as patronizing, advice from someone who'd been through it, but he has to say it. _You shouldn't sacrifice yourself for them – for your mother, for any of them._

His shirt is thin enough that he can feel Charles's breath through it, warm and damp. Those breaths aren't terribly steady, although they're slowing as Charles allows himself to relax. Erik absently rubs along the expanse of Charles's back, the place where his shoulder blades broaden him out from the slim line running down into his waist. Even with the seat all the way back there isn't much room, so he gets to feel so much of Charles against him, solid enough to dispel any misgivings Erik might have had about doing this, here.

_I know_ , Charles says, sounding a little helpless. He lifts his head to offer Erik an apologetic kiss. _But..._

That's maybe one irreconcilable difference between them. Faced with treatment like Sharon's, Erik would have left and not looked back, all cords cut and sundered for good. But Charles can't divorce himself so easily, even after five years without so much as a word exchanged, he can't let go completely. Selfishly, Erik hates the thought of having to share Charles, wants to place himself between Charles and any possibility of him returning to that life, even though he knows that's the last thing Charles wants.

"I told you," Charles murmurs as he places another kiss at the corner of Erik's mouth, more the suggestion of a kiss than a real one, "they don't get to have you. I'm very selfish too, you know. But – but thank you."

Every time Charles thanks him for something, Erik feels a little like a fraud. He knows, deep down in his bones, that he doesn't deserve Charles; one of these days, Charles is going to wake up and know it, too. He can't imagine where Charles has acquired the misguided belief that Erik is a good person.

"Shush," Charles says out loud. "Not today." He marks the words with a sharp poke to Erik's side. In response, Erik changes his grip, pinning down Charles's arms against his body; Charles struggles for only a moment before relaxing again against Erik's hold. They stay like that for a few minutes, in easy silence, before Charles sighs and says _All right._

_All right?_ Erik repeats.

_I'm ready._ This time when Charles pushes against him, Erik eases his grip, letting Charles untangle himself from their embrace and make his way back to the passenger seat. When he's settled in against, Charles gives him a crooked smile. "Home, Jeeves."

"Are you still allowed to make that joke if you actually grew up with a chauffeur?" Erik asks. 

"Maybe I should learn to drive myself," Charles says thoughtfully, as Erik guides the car back onto the road.

"I can't believe you never learned."

"Really?" Charles raises his eyebrow. "I'd already quit school when I turned sixteen, and then I was living in the city. It's not like I had a car, or knew anyone who did. Even if I had any need of it, who was going to teach me?"

"Well," Erik says, "I can teach you, if you want."

Charles chuckles. "Somehow I can't imagine you'd be the most patient instructor."

"I can reward progress," Erik says, with a sidelong smirk that earns him a groan from Charles. "And I'm good at providing... incentives for fast learners. Which I'm sure you are, you being such a bright boy and all."

"Oh my god," Charles mutters. "You are completely insufferable, did you know that?"

"I know insufferable when I see it, Xavier." Erik adds a silent _and I'm looking at it_ , which causes Charles to grin ruefully and shake his head.

* * *

By the time they get back to Erik's apartment, Erik is sufficiently through with people to want to beg off the party tonight. Sometimes he isn't entirely sure why he pursued a job requiring so much contact with other living beings, when he'd be so much happier being left to himself. It's something else he compartmentalizes, other people and their needs during the day, himself and his own space, his solitude, at night. _Introvert_ , Charles says in tune with Erik's thoughts as Erik pushes his apartment door open and they step into the quiet, the door shutting behind them to shut out the world.

"We don't have to go, though," Charles says, shivering a little as Erik gets an arm around him and pulls him close. It's _so good_ after being kept apart all day, the mental contact enjoyable (and in a low, greedy way Erik likes that Charles shares that with only him, that they existed apart from those other humans this afternoon) but not enough. "I mean, if you don't want to..."

"We'll go," Erik says reluctantly, although he doesn't free Charles, only spreads his fingers across the flat of Charles's belly, so warm and tempting under the expensive shirt, which is untucked and a little wrinkled now. "You look so good like this, like you could only be civilized and proper for so long, like you were just dying to be rumpled up."

Charles shivers a little. "I'm always civilized and proper," he says, somehow managing to keep a straight face.

"Uh huh," Erik says, kissing Charles's throat. "You were perfectly proper last night, writhing in my bed, waiting for my cock."

Charles huffs out a breath before shoving Erik away, with a roll of his eyes. "Don't start anything you don't have time to finish, you jerk," he says sternly.

"Hey, hey." Erik holds his hands in the air before him, as if to show his innocence. "When do I ever not carry through, huh?" He steps forward, and Charles allows him to pull him back into his space, though Charles stills looks wary.

"We don't have time, if we're going to go out," Charles says reluctantly, glancing over the microwave clock.

"I could make it fast," Erik murmurs, mouthing at Charles's jaw. He moves his hips, a teasing push against Charles's. "Could go down on you right here – how long do you think you'd last? Five minutes?"

"I don't think – ” Charles says breathlessly, but the faint uncertainty in his voice is outweighed by the desire. 

Still, Erik pauses, with a last kiss, light against Charles's lips. "Should I stop?"

"No," Charles breathes, and his hands flex for a moment on Erik's shoulders before pushing down with a slight pressure, guiding Erik down to his knees.

Erik can't help grinning, wide and sharp and hungry. He rests his hands on Charles's hips and leans in, nuzzling across Charles's belly and groin, over his shirt and pants. _Put your hands in my hair_ , he instructs Charles, and Charles does it, scraping his fingers across Erik's scalp in a way that makes Erik groan in satisfaction.

"It would be a shame to ruin these." He traces a line down the zipper, smirking as Charles's cock stirs beneath the rich, sleek fabric. "I guess that means you'll have to come down my throat, doesn't it?"

"Yeah," Charles agrees shakily. He sounds nearly drunk, although he'd barely touched his drink at the reception. When Erik glances up through his lashes he can see Charles staring down at him, licking his lips absently. Erik copies him, a bit showier, less unself-conscious, and nuzzles the growing bulge in Charles's crotch, mouthing at it until Charles starts to tug his hair impatiently and his thoughts drip heavily into Erik, _come on come on I won't be civilized much longer if you keep that up._

"Then we'd best hurry," Erik murmurs. He dispatches the zipper and two buttons swiftly, tugging the trousers down, heedless of the wrinkles they leave. He chokes back a laugh at Charles's boxers, cheap cotton, pale blue pinstripes, but Charles catches his amusement anyway. _Do you think you're going to laugh with my cock down your throat?_ he asks, curling his fingers meaningfully in Erik's hair.

_Such a smart mouth_ , Erik thinks reprovingly as he pulls down Charles's boxers. Charles's cock bobs free, already nice and hard and straining, so easy to tongue at the foreskin and suckle the exposed head until Charles whimpers and curses at him. The curses become more fervent when Erik squeezes Charles's ass, massaging him and holding him steady as Erik licks along his length and suckles his balls, pushing his face into the damp, soft crevice at the junction of groin and thigh.

He breathes in the heady, musky smell of Charles and sex. Fucking intoxicating, he thinks. He continues swirling his tongue around the wrinkled skin of Charles's sack, until Charles's noises start to sound strained, and the gentle hands in his hair start to tug him away, back up to Charles's cock.

When Erik lowers his mouth onto Charles's cock, Charles hisses loudly and immediately thrusts up, shoving it in as far as he can. Erik very nearly chokes on it; he has to grab Charles's hips again, fingers hard against the bone, and hold him still while Erik carefully breathes in and out through his nose.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry," Charles murmurs, sounding mortified, his thumb stroking apologetically over Erik's temple. 

Erik slowly pulls off, until only the head of Charles's cock is left in his mouth, wrapping one palm around the base of Charles's cock. He sucks hard at the head until Charles cries out, and then he takes Charles's length back in, down to where his lips meet his fist. He starts a rhythm like that, bobbing steadily. He urges Charles, silently, to spread his legs further apart, and Charles does so, as far as the fabric still caught around his ankles will allow. This way, Erik's other hand is free to play between Charles's legs, a thumb rubbing a light tease against his hole, a finger firm against that sensitive spot behind his balls.

Charles isn't speaking, either out loud or mentally, but he's not cut Erik off from his mind, either, and behind the pleasure and wonder Erik can sense that some part of Charles is fighting. Out of pride, probably – but Erik _wants_ him to come, doesn't want him to last; that's the point of this entire exercise.

_Don't hold back, baby_ , Erik thinks. 

_I can't, I –_ Charles drags in a sobbing breath, resisting the ecstasy Erik's trying to drag out of him. _You can, I want you to_ , Erik tells him, humming around the hot length of cock in his mouth, gripping Charles's hip now so his mouth can slide all the way down, taking Charles in as deep as he can get. Charles whimpers again, trying not to thrust mindlessly the way he wants to, rocking helplessly against the finger Erik's got rimming his hole and the palm cradling his balls. 

"God, fuck, _Erik_ ," Charles chokes out, his breath completely shattered and his thighs going tense as he scrabbles for control. Erik steals it from him, swallowing as best he can, and Charles cries out and comes, his hips stuttering and nearly getting past the hold Erik has on him as he spurts down Erik's throat.

_So good_ , Erik tells him as he licks Charles clean. Charles's mind feels numb, stunned, against his, its usual sharpness wrapped in cotton. Erik unlaces Charles's shoes and takes them off, smiling softly into Charles's thigh as Charles automatically lifts one foot after the other to help him out. It makes taking off his trousers and boxers easier, although Erik can't help a wince as they pool on the somewhat-dirty kitchen floor.

"I – I – ” Charles is mostly leaning back against the counter, holding onto it with both hands now; Erik's shoulders support the rest of him, bracing against the unsteadiness in Charles's knees. "I didn't, I..."

"Charles?" Erik looks up.

Charles isn't looking back, his eyes shut tight and frustration pouring off him. "Fuck," he hisses. "Fuck, I hate this, why am I _like_ this?"

Erik feels like he's been punched in the stomach; he can feel his erection rapidly fading. He scrambles up to his feet, reaches out to touch Charles and then reconsiders it, taking a step back. Don't cage him in, he tells himself, you've made that mistake before.

"What's wrong?" Erik says, hearing the scratchiness in his own voice.

Charles still won't look at him. "It's nothing, it's stupid, I'm fine – ” he says, biting off the words like it's painful.

"Goddammit, Charles!" He can't quite tell how much of the anger he feels is towards Charles and how much is towards himself, but either way he's barely a shade off from shouting. "Don't lie to me, you're obviously not fucking _fine_."

Charles is still wearing his shirt, the tails falling just above the bottom of his ass, the front framing his softened genitalia. He looks more exposed like this, Erik realizes, than he would completely nude. Charles hears the thought, and winces.

Hard as Erik tries, he can't feel what Charles is feeling, can't find him there to help him understand. Charles is on the edge of hysterics, shutting Erik out, and Erik _doesn't know why_.

"Just tell me what I did wrong," Erik says, trying to keep his voice even, trying not to sound as frustrated as he is. "Did I push you too far? Did you want me to stop?" _What is it, for fuck's sake?_

"You didn't," Charles grits out. He's got the edge of the counter in a death grip, hunching over – trying to cover himself, Erik realizes. He can't help with that, though, not without getting in Charles's space, and he knows Charles won't welcome that now. Charles exhales, a long breath that shakes him down to the core. "You were fine. You were fine. It was me."

"You'll forgive me if I don't believe that," Erik says, with more heat than is probably wise. He rubs his face, acutely aware of the drying spit on his chin, his swollen lips. "Can I help you with your clothes, at least? You need to sit down before you fall down."

Between them they manage to pull up Charles's boxers, although Charles leaves his trousers and shoes abandoned on the kitchen floor. Erik trails behind him into the living room, watching Charles closely as he collapses into a corner of the couch, drawing his legs up underneath him. There's still no sense of him in Erik's head, although from the involuntary winces and soft, pained sounds, it's clear Charles is receiving Erik's every thought loud and clear. Looking at him, curled into a knot of elbows and knees, Erik suddenly sees a frightened thing, something trying to hide itself.

"Should I leave?" he asks, half-hoping Charles will say yes, so he can go and not feel bad about it.

"Wait," Charles says after a long, agonizing minute. Erik obeys, reaching for the patience he doesn't really have, and waits until Charles, at last, says, "I'm so – Erik," he swallows thickly around the words, gazing up at him with tears in his eyes, tears Charles's stubbornness won't let fall, "I'm fucked up. I didn't – I didn't mean to panic. I didn't _want_ to, but I did anyway."

Erik wants to tell Charles that it's okay, that he's not responsible for the things he can't control, that Erik understands. But the truth is that Erik can't stop himself from feeling hurt. From feeling angry, even, that Charles didn't _stop_ him before it ever got this far. And maybe even those thoughts wouldn't be so bad if they could be private, if he could shut them up somewhere deep where he didn't have to deal with them, where Charles would never see them. But Charles _can_ see them, and that's a resentment of its own, that Charles can see all of him like this and yet Charles is still keeping himself locked away where Erik can't reach.

He leans back against the wall with a heavy breath, folding his arms against his chest, and fixes his gaze steadily on Charles's bare feet, his long toes, his pale and surprisingly delicate ankles. 

"You told me," Erik says finally, aiming his words still to Charles's feet, "that if I did something you didn't like, you'd stop me. You promised me."

"I'm sorry," Charles says, his voice small and pinched with misery.

"I feel like – ” Erik starts, then stops. He takes a deep breath and tries again. "I feel like you put me in this role where I have to be the grown-up. Where I have to know the right thing to say every time. And if I don't, well, that's it. It's all or nothing, it's perfect and simple or you want to throw the whole thing away. And I don't know how to do that, Charles."

"And I told you, it's not your fault!" Charles explodes in frustration.

"Then why are you hiding from me?" Erik demands. "Because fuck if I know what you're thinking unless you tell me, or unless you _let_ me." He remembers, suddenly, their conversation from last week, when something like this had happened, when Charles had spooked and, while he hadn't bolted at first, he had in the end. Erik had resigned himself to it then, but now, when he's already given so much of himself (too much), watching Charles run will be like resigning himself to being shot, the pain worse for the knowledge he could have – should have – controlled it, deflected the bullet, although the fault lies elsewhere. 

Charles blows out an unsteady breath. "I liked it, Erik. I wanted it. I wanted – I want – you. I wanted you doing that to me. I loved it."

"You could have told me to stop at any time," Erik says flatly. He pushes back the sense of betrayal, that somehow Charles is the one who screwed up and Erik's paying the price, that what he's hearing is only a half-truth and the other half, the important half, is the half Charles is keeping to himself. It's illogical, he tells himself, but there it is. "You were fighting it, earlier, when I wanted you to come. I thought it was just pride, you wanting to show me you could take whatever I gave you, but it wasn't. What was it?"

"I really thought I would be okay," Charles says, more carefully this time, each emphasis deliberate. "After all, we had sex after other... you know." _After we saw my mother the first time_ , Charles finishes, with a little brush of guilt for stepping over Erik's boundaries in the car that day. Erik starts – this is the first time Charles has actually reached out to him – and Charles flinches, closing up on himself before Erik can tell him it's okay. "I don't know what happened, Erik. I swear I don't. One minute it was wonderful – amazing – and the next... it was like all I could think of was how my body wasn't under my control anymore – that, I don't know, it had been taken from me, rather than me giving it up, if that makes sense.." He laughs a little, bitter and self-recriminating. "And after, I... I didn't want you to get caught up in my head. I didn't want to hurt you, I was so scared of it, of what I could do to you... but I guess I hurt you anyway, huh?"

Erik closes his eyes and bangs his head back against the wall a few times before he can speak again. He doesn't open his eyes as he says, "What did you think would happen, Charles? That I would see you freaking out and, what, not give a shit? Go on like nothing had happened?"

There's no answer from Charles, and Erik does open his eyes, then, taking him in. If anything, Charles has curled up even more tightly around himself. 

"Charles."

"I don't know what you want me to say!" Charles bursts out, turning his face to glare at Erik. "Or what you want me to do! Jesus, Erik, when are you going to stop being surprised when I'm just as messed up as I keep warning you about?"

Erik has to bite down on his lip, as viciously as he can, to keep from responding. He's not sure what exactly words are threatening to spill out, but he's sure they're terrible. He forces himself to pause, think, takes some deep breathes, before he finally allows himself to speak again.

"I think that maybe we need to be away from each other for a while. Not like that," he adds quickly, at the tiny stricken look in Charles's eyes. "Just for a couple hours. Neither of us is thinking straight."

"You want me to leave?" Charles says softly.

Erik can see where the question is coming from, and it's a valid one – it's Erik's apartment, after all – and yet at this point it just makes another flicker of frustration rise in Erik's mind, that Charles could think that Erik would just throw him out on the street when he's like this. He pushes down the feeling, another one to add to the roiling pit in his stomach and says evenly, "No. I thought I'd go out and join the others and you can stay here and..." _Think_ doesn't seem like the right thing to say, and neither does _calm down_. Erik leaves the end of the sentence blank.

"So I can think about what I've done?" Charles says sarcastically. He grimaces and shakes his head. "I shouldn't have said that."

"You shouldn't have," Erik agrees. He bites down on the impulse to say _see, this is what I mean, you seeing everything that goes through my head_. "I'm not going to tell you that you can't leave, or that I expect you to be here when I get back, but I would like it if you stayed here."

That's about as diplomatic as he's capable of being right now, maybe even more than. Charles nods wordlessly, not looking up at him as Erik leaves to change, staring determinedly at his fingers, which are knotted together atop his knees. The silence Erik leaves behind is terribly loud, filled up with uncertainty and disbelief, for all that Charles is still pent up inside himself, and he tells himself it's Charles's responsibility to break it; he's done all he can.

Erik changes mechanically, careful to re-hang his trousers and jacket and tie, dropping his shirt in the dry-cleaning bag. He brushes his teeth and double-rinses with mouthwash, getting rid of the stale taste of flesh and salt – washing away the reminder of Charles. He doesn't know if that's symbolic or what, getting the taste of failure out of his mouth, the mean, cutting thought that Charles has used him somehow.

"Give my regrets to everyone?" Charles says when Erik reemerges. The tilt upward makes it a request, as if Charles might be imposing. Erik reminds himself Charles isn't deliberately making himself look vulnerable to manipulate the situation, reminds himself he has to get his thoughts under control before he sees his colleagues. "I'll... I'll see you tonight."

"Later," Erik says. He ignores Charles's trousers and shoes, still forgotten in the kitchen, grabs his leather jacket, and leaves.

He spends the length of the taxi ride trying to calm himself, empty his mind. He thinks he's gotten as close as he's going to get to blank by the time he arrives at the bar.

The others are already inside, a loud rambunctious group in the corner. They look surprised to see him – but pleased, too, which takes Erik aback a little. Munroe even stands up, gives him a very brief hug. 

"We didn't think you were going to show up!" she says, raising her voice so he can hear her over the din. "I owe Angel twenty bucks now."

Erik glances over at Angel, who's seated at the end of the tables they've jammed together, and sure enough, she gives him a thumbs-up.

"No Charles?" Munroe says, looking behind him. 

"He couldn't make it," Erik says smoothly. "He had some family shit today, I think."

Munroe nods, lets it go at that. She proceeds to introduce Erik to her fiancé, a handsome man whose name Erik forgets instantly. 

He heads to the bar, ordering himself a beer, and comes back to settle into a seat next to Logan, who he figures is the least likely of any of them to actually want to carry on a conversation with him.

"Lehnsherr," Logan grunts, not-so-discreetly pushing a plate of nachos in his direction. "You look like shit."

"You look about the same," Erik replies, although Logan looks about the way he always looks, if a little scruffier. He's already amassed a collection of glasses and one empty pitcher with a few drops of beer in it, a reminder that his alcohol consumption is limited only by what he feels like spending.

Logan lets Erik drink his beer and pick at the nachos in peace for a few minutes before saying, "How's Chuck?"

"You won't live to regret it if he hears you calling him that," Erik says dryly.

"Good thing he ain't around, then."

"Good thing," Erik echoes. He finishes his beer, gestures to the group of empties and the sad-looking pitcher. "You want something decent, or are you going to swill Coors the rest of the night?"

"Something decent, if you're buying," Logan says, tipping a glass at him.

Erik toys with the idea of a Bud Lite, purely for the sake of being difficult, but so far, aside from his comment about Charles, Logan hasn't made Erik's life difficult. And, he has to admit, the bar is more or less what he needs, interacting with people who have their places in his life, people who are colleagues, if not friends. He knows how to slide around the outskirts of their conversations, knows that they know not to expect much friendliness from him. He knows, when he finally orders his drinks and brings Logan's back, Logan's going to bitch about whatever Erik buys him before falling silent, the thanks remaining unspoken.

"Well, if it isn't one of the conquering heroes?" Emma Frost purrs, sliding into the empty stool at Erik's elbow. She's in her usual off-white, cigarette pants and a top that is, for Emma, unexpectedly informal. "Where's the other one?"

"Slumming tonight, Frost?" Erik doesn't have shields as such, but he has everything important to him – Charles, the open wound of the past hour – as covered as he can make them. For the rest, he's relying on Frost keeping to the promises she made to Charles, on whatever fear she has of him.

"I can't express my gratitude?" Frost asks, her glossed lips tilting up in a smile that, shockingly, almost seems genuine. 'My parents may have seen my telepathy as a useful business tool, but that doesn't mean they didn't consider packing me off to a place like Hirschfield if the voices in my head started getting too loud."

It's startling to think of. Of course Emma was a child once – she didn't spring fully made-up and manicured from the head of Zeus one day – but Erik's always sort of conflated her in his mind with her diamond form, as if she's always been cold and untouchable and harder than steel, as if she never had to go through any sort of dark days of her own.

The notion that other people, too, have had their own shit to deal with shouldn't be a revelation to him, but between this and the conversation with Munroe yesterday, he feels like he's been struck with something sharp and unexpected. It's a sign of just how cut off from other people he really is. He's never gotten close enough to learn about anybody else's problems, let alone to care. Charles, as he is for so many things, is the exception – but even that, Erik thinks, might be inherently selfish of him, because doesn't he think of Charles as _his_? No matter how he fights it, those possessive and protective instincts won't stay away, and he isn't self-deceiving enough to fool himself that it's his needs rather than Charles's he's really filling there.

He feels naked, suddenly, but if Emma is reading his thoughts she doesn't show any sign of it, for once, and everyone else is treating him like he's acting exactly the same as usual. 

Erik finishes his glass and stands up. "I'm going outside for a smoke," he announces. Nobody gives him a second glance as he makes his way through the crowd to the door.

It's dim out, though not totally dark yet; there's a light drizzle falling. He hunches over a little in his jacket, trying to stay under the eave while he lights up. 

Halfway through the cigarette, his phone begins to vibrate in his pocket. The caller ID says it's Charles. Erik stares at it, hesitating for a moment before swiping his thumb to accept the call – but by the time he does, Charles has already hung up.

He's still holding the phone in his hand when a text pops up, a few seconds later. 

_Where do you keep your cleaning products. I already looked under the sink and in the bathroom._

Carefully, one-handed, Erik types: _Why_?

The wait before the next text arrives is long enough that Erik is beginning to suspect Charles isn't going to answer at all. It does come, though: _Because I'd like to clean up my vomit before you get back._

He chokes on the smoke still in his lungs, drops the cigarette and grinds it out under his heel. A hundred possibilities whip through his mind, that Charles is having a meltdown, that Charles needs to get his fucking act together, that there's something seriously wrong, that it's his fault, that Charles has been working on a stomach bug and it's nothing huge, that Charles needs him, that this is attention-seeking, that he's tired of respecting Charles's arbitrary rules, that Charles is right and he's screwed up beyond helping, that that that – he cuts them off and texts back _Are you okay?_

A couple minutes pass, Erik suspended between wanting to call and wanting to rush home and wanting to say the hell with it. Finally, his phone vibrates again, the text box popping up on the lock screen: _Found them, never mind._

Grinding his teeth, Erik hits the call back button. Charles's phone rings three times; he knows that, on the fifth, it'll go to voice mail, and he also knows that Charles has got his phone turned on – if it's off, the call gets diverted to voice mail right away.

"Erik," Charles's voice says – not his recorded message, his own voice, ragged and wary. "You didn't need to call. I found the stuff in your laundry room."

"Are you okay," Erik says. It's not a question so much as it is a flat statement, a demand.

"I worked myself into a panic attack, but I'm fine now," Charles says with the same empty intonation. It's almost close to the sort of tone Erik had gotten used to from when Charles had been just Xavier, the brilliant pain in the ass with a pretty mouth – so subtle, you're not sure what emotion he's expressing, if it's a casual observation or something cutting. Briefly, Erik wonders if Charles could make him forget everything Erik's learned about him over the past week and a half, if his powers could let them re-set their relationship.

Then, more quietly, with a sincerity Erik can feel as if Charles is pressing it into his mind, Charles says, "I'm sorry, Erik. I'm sorry I bothered you. It's fine, I'm fine. Truly. I just need to sleep, maybe get out of my head for a bit."

"I'm coming home," Erik says, making the decision even as he says it.

"Please don't," Charles says. "I wasn't trying to – I only told you because you asked, and I don't want to start lying to you just because it's easier." He sighs, audible even over the phone line. "You deserve an evening where you're not just worrying about me. Try to have fun with people."

"I hate having fun with people," Erik says, "you know that." It's the barest shade of their usual joking, but it still gets a weak, tired chuckle from Charles. 

He's trying, Erik reminds himself. Charles is trying hard. But, shit, Erik, he's only nineteen. He's a kid, a fucked-up kid, and you know it, no matter how brilliant he is, no matter how mature he is, no matter how good he is at hiding it. He's a kid, and this is what you signed up for. 

It's a relief to let himself think all these things, to let them out without worrying that Charles will overhear and he'll have to deal with Charles's reaction. They've barely been apart this week, and that's been Erik's choice as much as Charles’s – it's been what he wanted, what he needed at the time – but they've been moving fast, and Erik hasn't really processed everything, not when he's tiptoeing around Charles's issues. They're thoughts Erik has to acknowledge – they don't outweigh everything else, the good things, but that doesn't mean he can just ignore them, either.

"All right," Erik says into the phone. "I won't come home yet. Just... try to get some rest. And Charles?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you."

"I love you, too," Charles says softly.

Erik hangs up his phone. He rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands, letting out a jagged breath, before lowering them again. It's gotten dark while he's been outside, but the rain has let up.

He remains outside for a few more minutes, smoking his way through one more cigarette to make up for the one that's a damp little stub on the sidewalk. The nicotine steadies him, a soft, quiet rush that can't quite equal the exercise of his abilities but can calm him all the same. Behind him, the bar's become a little noisier, with patrons just getting off work streaming in to catch a Yankees game, shouts and cheers growing louder when the door swings open and dying when it slams shut.

Just as he thinks about heading back in, Erik senses the approach of Logan's metal skeleton. The first day he'd sensed it – the first day he'd been in Homicide, as a matter of fact – he'd been endlessly intrigued even as he'd been repulsed by the adamantium grafted onto the dead substrate of bone. With time, the impression has dimmed somewhat, Erik's abilities acclimating themselves to the strangeness of it.

"You comin' back in?" Logan asks, sticking his head through the door. "Or are you planning to brood all night?"

"Coming back in." Erik gestures with the cigarette. "You want to finish this?"

"Fuck that," Logan snorts. He only smokes cigars, the more hideous, the better. The only people who can prevent him from lighting up in their company, so far as Erik knows, are Moira and Emma. That doesn't keep him from gazing wistfully at the cigarette as it glows softly, until Erik thrusts it at him.

"So is the kid showing up tonight?" Logan asks as he inhales strongly enough to suck the rest of the cigarette to ash.

"I said no to Munroe earlier," Erik snaps. "And I didn't realize offering you my cigarette was also an offer for chit-chat."

"Hell, Lehnsherr, everybody knows that."

Erik shakes his head. Logan looks at him, an appraising glint in his eyes.

"You're wound up even tighter than usual tonight," Logan says after a moment. "Didn't know that was even possible."

"It's been a long day," Erik says, the only explanation he's willing to offer. Not that Logan deserves one to begin with. He gives Logan a glare that's practically daring him to push the issue, but Logan just snorts.

"I like Chuck," he says. "He's a good kid. Smart aleck, but a good kid."

"For fuck's sake," Erik growls, "is there some kind of fucking sign around my neck or something? 'Talk to me about Charles Xavier'?"

Logan shrugs. "There might as well be." The cigarette is long gone by now, and Logan jerks his head back toward the door. "Come on. Back to the party."

Erik follows him in, silently steaming. He feels calmer after he finishes his beer, and even better after the next one. 

Emma slides in next to him sometime after that, poking his thigh with her sharp nail. "Look out, Lehnsherr," she says, softly enough that only she and Erik can hear. It's practically a purr. "The redhead at the bar's making eyes at you."

"Fuck off, Emma," Erik says, though there's less venom in it than he probably would normally feel.

Emma just smirks at him, and adds mentally, _She's hoping you notice her. Just waiting for you to walk over and take her up on those X-rated thoughts of hers. What a filthy imagination she has._

Erik sets his glass down on the table with an audible thud. "What the fuck are you doing?" he says, careful to enunciate each word.

She leans back in her chair, crossing her legs and tossing her hair over her shoulder. "Something stopping you, then?"

"Not my type." He stares straight at her, knowing she's not intimidated by him but not caring; his careful tightening of the silver bracelet around her wrist says plenty.

"Not young enough?" Emma murmurs and then, with a scimitar grin, "Not telepathic enough?"

"I hope Logan's the one who handles interrogations, if this is the best you can do," Erik says as calmly as he can manage. Charles had told him how Emma reads minds for fun. _It's a game to her_. Since he can't play the game on her terms, answering back with his own ability, he asks, _Do you really want to test Charles on this?_

_Sugar, he only told me he'd turn my mind inside-out if I blabbed to the rest of the department. He didn't say anything about torturing you._ Emma uncrosses and then re-crosses her legs, so very casually; the wine glass raised to her lips, though, can't hide the frown, as if she's miscalculated or said too much. That doesn't keep her from saying, unnecessarily loudly, "Really, you should go to poor Zoe over there and either offer to buy her a drink and go somewhere quiet, or tell her you're not interested and put her out of her misery and mine. I'm getting tired of hearing her fantasize about doing various things to your various body parts."

Summers, who's been hovering in the background, of course overhears this and chimes in with fervent agreement, pointing at Erik with the mouth of his beer bottle as if to emphasize his point. "Seriously, she's fucking hot, and Lehnsherr, you need to get some. How long's it been, anyway?"

"Not as long as it's been for you," Erik mutters. Angel whistles appreciatively at the response and Summers winces as if he's in pain.

_Young love is so adorable_ , Emma coos. _Do you draw hearts around his name in your notebook? Or does he? I don't really know how these May-December romances work._

_Why are you doing this_? Erik says. _What the hell do you get from it_?

Emma raises her eyebrow. _Lehnsherr, you walk around the place like you're so much higher, so much better than all the rest of us. Can you really blame me for reveling in this? In knowing that you – you who looks at people like they're the scum on the bottom of your shoe – that you're hiding a dirty little secret?_

When he squeezes her bracelet this time, it's harder enough to make her gasp out, though whether it's in pain or merely surprise Erik isn't sure. He's on his feet without making the conscious decision to stand up. "Don't you ever talk about him like that," he hisses. "Don't you ever fucking dare, you bitch.”

The rest of their group has gone silent, staring at the two of them in shock. "Lehnsherr, what the hell, man – ” Summers starts, but he cuts himself off when Darwin nudges him in the ribs. 

The only one who doesn't look surprised is Logan, who's still eating his mozzarella sticks as calmly as ever. "You're out of line," he informs Erik, and as much as Erik wants to argue, strike out, hit something – hell, maybe especially _because_ of that – Erik knows he's right.

Erik takes a deep breath, uncurling his fingers from the fists they've formed at his side. "I've clearly had enough to drink," he says. "I'm out of here."

He grabs his jacket and takes off quickly, not giving anybody a chance to say goodbyes, or anything else, for that matter. 

He doesn't have enough metal on him – his lighter, yes, but the cabbie will notice and object if Erik starts playing with fire in his backseat. The change in his pockets works better; he'd be willing to pay considerably more than the face value of the coins just for the release that comes with destroying them. 

He avoids the elevators at his building, heading for the stairwells instead. The longer it takes him to get back, he thinks, the longer until he'll have to face knowing whether or not Charles is still there.

Seven flights up is a long way, but not long enough; before he knows it, the stairs have run out and he's staring at the huge black 7 stenciled on the door leading to the main hallway. He resists the urge to call out for Charles in his mind, because Charles might be asleep and also, he knows, because Charles might not answer.

The residual anger at Emma's words, _how dare she, how fucking dare she_ , burns away enough of his apprehension to let him walk down the hall, reaching out with his abilities to unlock the door before he gets there, first the regular lock and then the deadbolt. The deadbolt isn't engaged. He tells himself that means nothing; Charles could have forgotten to turn it before going to sleep (if he's gone to sleep). It doesn't mean Charles left and, not having metallokinesis or a set of keys, had only been able to turn the lock behind him.

When he steps into the dim-lit kitchen – Charles had left one of the lights over the island on – he wrinkles his nose at the powerful chemical scent of Lysol, which seems to be everywhere, as if Charles has bathed the entire room in it. The dress trousers and shoes, he realizes when his eyes adjust, are gone. Sighing, he drops keys and wallet in their drawer and fetches a glass of water, looking out into the empty living room beyond the kitchen, and the city lights beyond the window.

The water kills some of the taste of beer and stale cigarette. Erik finishes off another glass and, insupportably tired, dazed from the afternoon and Emma's words and hating it, silently tells the world to fuck itself. He has to go in tomorrow, for appearances' sake, if nothing else, to prove to them whatever Emma did to him tonight has no lasting effects, that he's _fine_ , the hell with Charles, Shaw, all of it, but no small part of him wants to lick his wounds and hide until he's recovered.

_Sleep_ , he tells himself as he places his glass in the dishwasher and heads for his bedroom to change and collapse. He can recharge tonight, reorder and reorganize his world tomorrow.

He steps into his bedroom, summoning the lights up to half-brightness and his breath leaves him in a rush, leaves him light-headed, leaves him stunned.

Charles is there, curled loosely on his side like one half a parentheses, budged up against the edge of the bed – on Erik's side of the bed, closer to the door – as if ready to leap up at a moment's notice. He's in two layers of shirts, one short-sleeved, one long, and flannel pants and socks. And, Erik realizes as he looks his fill (as if he could get enough), he's utterly still, his muscles slack and breath coming in slow, shallow waves, like the one night after they'd interviewed Sharon.

_Out of my head_ , Charles had told him earlier.

Erik dims the lights again, leaving them just bright enough that he can still make his way around the room to his dresser and pull out some pajama pants. After he's changed, he sits down at the edge of the bed, by Charles's feet. He knows Charles isn't actually asleep, and nothing Erik could do could break this spell, but some part of him still feels like it would be wrong to be too loud, too bright, too anything. After a few seconds, he allows himself to reach out, rest his hand on Charles's ankle ever so gently.

"Fuck, Charles," Erik says. He lowers his head down to his chest, closing his eyes, and does nothing for a minute but breathe in the silent stillness. Then he opens his eyes, and stands back up.

He considers grabbing some sheets from the linen closet and making up a bed on the couch. It's just – he doesn't _know_ how much space Charles needs right now, on a very literal level, and there's no way to ask him like this. Either side, it's a risk, isn't it? Too close and Charles is trapped; too distant, and he's abandoned.

It's Erik's bed, though. Charles didn't have to stay, but he did, and this is specifically where he chose to be. And, when it comes down to it, Erik can't leave Charles when he's like this, unguarded and empty, not even to lie down a room away.

He climbs into bed – strange and a bit uncomfortable, on the opposite side as usual – and turns the lights completely back off. He doesn't wrap himself around Charles, doesn't tug him into his arms the way he's grown accustomed to so quickly. But he does lay on his side, facing Charles's back, and he lets himself rest his hand on Charles's waist, and he falls asleep in that position.

* * *

Erik wakes up a few hours later, in the early hours of the morning. He's too focused on his urgent need to piss to notice anything else until after he returns from the bathroom. Charles is under the covers, instead of lying on top of them; he's lost one of his layers of shirts, and his breath is coming at a normal speed. Asleep, not _away_. He stirs a little as Erik returns to the bed, shifting closer towards him without ever waking up, like his internal compass points, somehow, miraculously, toward Erik.

Erik wants to kiss him, to touch him, to tell him how beautiful he is – but any of those things would wake him up, and it would ruin it, break whatever fragile bubble exists in this moment. So he does none of those things. Instead, he lays awake for a long time, listening to Charles breathe, before he sleeps again.


	8. Chapter eight: Monday again

When he wakes again, and maybe for real despite his internal clock begging for more rest, Charles has moved closer, although he's still asleep. The line down the middle of Charles's forehead – a line Erik aches to trace with his fingertip – says he's either profoundly asleep or in a dream that has him confused and upset. Or maybe he's only concentrating; there's no way to tell, as Erik's never felt Charles project his dreams, that he knows of, and the rest of Charles's body is somnolent, only occasional twitches of his fingers or his mouth moving around words he doesn't speak. His breaths are soft, slow, coming through parted lips.

Erik considers turning over to check the time – the alarm hasn't gone off, his phone is in his pants pocket still, on the floor where'd he'd abandoned them last night – but it's so much better to watch Charles drowsing, to live in the illusion that everything is as uncomplicated as a sleeping boy.

The illusion doesn't last. As Erik considers getting up for coffee and an aspirin, Charles stirs, his breath coming more quickly now, and there, there, Erik feels his mind also stirring, spreading out from where it's anchored deep in Charles's body like waves rippling outward from a dropped stone. Charles's thoughts flow over him, sleep-slow and inarticulate, snatches of dreams Erik can't pick out – before the tide turns and rushes back in on itself and Charles opens his eyes.

"Erik!" Charles pulls back a little, blinking, and in the tentative silence Erik can't bring himself to break, sits up, looking around as if to take stock of the situation. "I – I'm on your side of the bed."

"You are," Erik agrees.

"I'm sorry." Charles is staring straight at him again, blue eyes wide and anxious underneath hair so improbably tousled Erik's overcome by the urge to disarrange it some more. "I just meant to close my eyes for a bit, I was going to wait for you. Did you – " Charles pauses, bites his lip, and Erik can almost see the tracks change. "Did you sleep okay?"

"Fine," Erik says. "What about you? Your... out of your head thing. Did it help?"

Charles nods. For a moment he looks as though he's about speak, but he closes his mouth again without saying a word.

"Good." With a groan, Erik slowly pushes himself up to sit, until his back is resting against the headboard. Last night has taken its toll; he can't tell how much of it is the physical after effects and how much the emotional, but either way he feels like he's been banged up considerably. At least the ache is in his head is still only a distant suggestion, instead of the pounding misery of a proper hangover. 

Charles is still watching him with that same fixed expression, so worried and yet hopeful. 

Erik clears his throat. "Thank you. For not leaving last night," he clarifies. "I wasn't sure if you'd be here when I got home."

"I told you I would be," Charles says; there's a sad edge to his voice, and Erik has to close his eyes.

"So you did."

He can feel Charles's hesitation in his head, feel the determination overcoming it, all a second before Charles's hand actually lands on his where it lays atop the sheets between them. Erik opens his eyes again to Charles's steady gaze.

"Are you still angry with me?" Charles says. He doesn't look scared, or vulnerable, or breakable at all; he simply looks matter of fact. It's a piece of information he's missing, and one he needs to know in order to work out where to go from here.

Erik sighs, tilting his head up toward the ceiling. "Honestly? I don't know." He shifts his hand beneath Charles's, until their fingers can twine together. "I'm still angry. But whether it's at you... I don't know."

Charles nods, his grip on Erik's hand tightening from a mere resting of fingers in fingers to a tighter hold. The uncertainty he telegraphs to Erik says he doesn't know if now is the time to talk, with both of them just woken up and the peace around them still delicate, if talking now would only shatter it forever. He doesn't want to talk – Erik knows how he feels; he doesn't want to talk, either – but he knows it's necessary, that there's too much between them that still needs to be said. And, Erik reflects ruefully, that they both still need to realize about each other. Erik hasn't understood the ways in which Charles is broken; Charles doesn't understand how Erik himself is broken, either.

There's something raw, though, in Charles's thoughts, that says talking would only rub against sore, exposed skin and cause pain. Erik keeps silent as Charles runs through the debate in his head, determined not to be the one who ventures a misstep and pays the price.

Finally Charles says, "How was everyone last night?"

"They were there." Erik allows his eyes to fall shut again. They're dry and itchy and his head aches, the alcohol making itself known. "Munroe and Logan and the rest of them say hi. Emma was a bitch."

"I'll talk to her again," Charles says, and of course he's caught the memories Erik has of last night, the _dirty little secret_ she thinks Charles is to him. His frown returns, darker this time, his eyes narrowing as if he's glaring at Emma in some imaginary distance. "She doesn't get to do that to you – to say those things to you." 

"Let it go," Erik says. "She didn't actually do any harm, she was just being an asshole. I can handle assholes myself."

There's an unhappiness from Charles at those words that causes Erik's own emotions to begin to roil in his stomach in a complicated way. If they weren't both being so careful this morning, he suspects it would be leading to an argument. Despite his hangover, part of him is spoiling for an argument, a way to release the rolling nausea in his stomach when he thinks about last night and what's waiting today. Charles doesn't deserve to be caught in that, and Erik hopes he has the sense not to push any issues today, to keep himself clear of Erik's blast zone.

Erik's phone alarm goes off, loud and annoying and insistent, and Erik groans as he forces himself out of the bed to fetch it. He turns off the alarm and begins his morning routine, albeit in a slower shuffle than normal.

He's gathering his clothes for the day together when Charles speaks from the bed. "Are you getting ready for work?"

Charles sounds, inexplicably, surprised. "Of course," Erik says. "What else would I be doing?"

"Well, it's just..." Charles is hesitating, probably trying to be diplomatic, and Erik pauses in his own task to turn and face him, watch Charles biting his lip as he struggles. "I know Moira wasn't expecting you to come in today," Charles finally finishes.

_Very diplomatic_. "If Moira has a problem with me being there, she can tell me herself," Erik says flatly. "I'm going to shower."

He allows himself, this morning, a longer and more pleasant shower than he usually would, letting himself indulge in it a little. If the rest of the day is going to be shit – and it almost certainly is – he'll at least have this small pleasure early on. He even lets himself remember Saturday evening, he and Charles in here together, lingering over the memories of it, of how gorgeous Charles was, how much he wanted it, the things he let Erik do to him... He cuts off that line of thought as he starts to stiffen. He doesn't want to jerk off this morning, not like this, not with Charles out there and maybe listening in on Erik's thoughts. There's nothing to do but ignore it until it goes away, though that becomes harder to do once he does end the shower and begins to dry himself off: even his towel smells like Charles.

Charles is gone from the bedroom by the time Erik's finished shaving and has abandoned staring at himself in the fogged-over mirror, but Erik senses him in the kitchen, fussing with the kettle and coffee maker. He's almost over-concentrating, to Erik's mind, distracting himself with a routine he knows by heart, his mind practically shouting that he's fine, that this is a day like any other.

_Stop it_ , Erik sends to him, more sharply than he means to, and apparently he still is a bit angry with Charles. Charles flinches back, the sense of busyness muted now, and Erik sighs. That wasn't what he meant, not precisely.

He doesn't have the ability to wait for Charles to sort himself out today. Erik devotes himself to dressing, realizing with a burst of irony that _he's_ concentrating too hard, focusing on the twelve buttons of his dress shirt, the zipper of his trousers, even god help him thinking about what color socks to wear with the pale grey pants and jacket. The faint betrayal he gets from Charles is warranted, although Erik chafes against the idea of Charles knowing this about him, that he has to be open to Charles like this, always a book ready for reading (or misreading; Charles is missing some important passages, or ignoring what's written between Erik's lines and in his margins), although he has to admit that Charles is trying to hold himself open, too, letting Erik see something of himself.

_You know what I am_ , Charles sends. _If you don't like it, tell me to leave or tell me to stop. Don't just resent it._

It's a challenge, one that Charles lets him see isn't issued lightly. It has so much of Charles's history bound up in it, from a mother that rejected it and him outright and father who tried to limit and then expand it as his desires dictated, to Charles's own sense of himself that isn't touched by anything else. Erik wishes desperately that they could do this on any day other than today, with Shaw's fate waiting in the wings and the disaster of yesterday, but Charles is pressing it now, and that isn't Erik's choice to make.

_No_ , Erik sends back. _Don't stop, don't leave. But you don't... don't project what you think I want to hear, or pretend you're fine if you're not._

There's a muted sense of disbelief from Charles. _Don't pretend I'm fine when I'm not? Isn't that exactly what you're doing?_

It's different, Erik wants to say. This is... this is how Erik works, how he always has. He can sit here and stew in his feelings, or he can push them down and away, tuck them out of sight so he can get things _done_. It's no different from the work and personal boundaries he's tried to explain to Charles, really; he has to keep things where they belong or it will all fall apart.

_So the difference is that you're better at it than me_ , Charles says. 

_That's not it_ , Erik replies. He's finished dressing by now, and he sits down on the edge of the bed and lets out a sigh, rubbing his hands over his face. He can't help thinking about yesterday, watching that foreign and untouchable Charles walking among his mother's friends. _You're good at hiding. I don't want you to hide from me. I want the real you._

_What if I don't know what that means?_ Charles shoots back, his frustration spilling over in a gush into Erik's mind. _What if I don't know who that is? Jesus, Erik, you're already closer than anybody else ever has been. Isn't that enough?_

Maybe it should be. Maybe it would be best for both of them if it was. But Erik has always known this about himself, how selfish, how greedy he is at the core, and it's clear to him now that there's never going to be a time when he doesn't want more of Charles, as much as he can get. He wants everything and doesn't know how to want anything else, or anything less.

Erik has lost his sense of Charles's whereabouts, deep in his own thoughts, so it's a surprise when Charles appears suddenly in the doorway to the bedroom. There's an expression on his face Erik can't quite parse, something sad and longing and oddly old. 

"You," Charles starts to say, choking a little on the word. He shakes his head, abandoning whatever he was going to say. Instead he walks further into the room, kneeling down on the floor beside Erik, careful not to touch him. "Can I kiss you? Please. I won't – I promise I won't freak out like last night."

_I know it's not going to fix anything_ , he adds, looking up into Erik's eyes. _But it's worse, like this, the distance._

"Yeah." It's agreement to the kiss, to the truth of Charles's words. He touches Charles's face, the gaunt curve of his cheek where the softness just covers the strong, angular bones underneath.

_Thank you_ , Charles sends, acknowledging both meanings. He places one hand on Erik's knee to brace himself as he leans up, and the first kiss is tentative, really a brush of Charles's mouth against the corner of Erik's. Erik holds himself in place until he can't stand it anymore, until the pent-up frustration and wanting from last night, until a flash of fear from Charles says he doesn't know what he'll do if his kiss goes unanswered, has him turning his head so their mouths meet more fully. Charles's lips are warm and moist, his breath when he opens for Erik unsteady – not from fear or lust, but from relief. It's so good although the kiss won't lead anywhere except itself, to Erik carding his fingers through Charles's hair.

_I want to give you what you're asking_ , Charles tells him as he pulls away, licking one last time at Erik's mouth, _but I can't give it all at once, I don't know how to give you something that's broken. When we can talk again, I'll tell you why I... why I panicked last night. And why I blocked you out. Not that I want you to forgive me or not be angry, but you should know._

"Okay," Erik says, hearing the words that, even in Charles's telepathy, remain unspoken. There's fear in them, running dark and poisonous, fear of memory and himself and, worst of all, what Erik will think when he learns the truth, if it would be fear or contempt or, worse, pity. He smiles a little bitterly, reminds himself he can't have Charles all together, all at the same time, wrapped up like a present; he can have Charles fractured and collect him one fragment at a time, as Charles hands himself over, or not at all. "But later. Tonight, maybe, if we're not too tired."

"The prosecutor is prepping me for the Durham case today," Charles says as he gets up. He offers Erik a hand and, when Erik gives it to him, tugs him to his feet. "But, I know today is... Will _you_ be okay?"

"Yes," Erik says automatically. He makes himself stop then, actually think about what he's saying, before he speaks again. "I'll be fine. I just need to get through one day. I've been through worse."

Charles nods, and Erik can almost see the process of Charles acknowledging that an as answer he has to accept. He heads toward Erik's closet, where his duffel bag is stored, and pulls out some clean, if rumpled, clothes to wear. 

The conversation is over, for the time being. Now for everything else.

It would help, Erik thinks, if he had something to destroy. Something as big as this building wouldn't exactly go amiss.

The ride to the station is quiet; Charles seems to be lost in his own thoughts. He's not shutting Erik out, but he's not exposing and projecting everything, either. Erik is just as glad for it. He has his own thoughts to avoid.

They make it to the station. Erik's lost track of how many times he and Charles have arrived together for work this week. It doesn't matter, really; he can't bring himself to care. He understands Charles's need for privacy, absolutely, but in a lot of ways, the cat is already out of the bag. And while Erik believes in discretion, he's not willing to pursuit it to the point where it's a burden. If Charles decides they need to start spending their nights apart, that's his right, but Erik cares about having Charles by his side more than he cares about whatever conclusions the meatheads at the station may come to. He sleeps better with Charles in his bed. 

A shy flush of pleasure steals through him at that. It's Charles, who glances quickly at him, not smiling – nothing so obvious – but his happiness is palpable. It's tentative, a wounded thing still uncertain of its safety, but it's there. After a moment the sensation tapers off, replaced by the abstracted thrum of Charles's thoughts, already looking ahead to the day. Erik can't really sense them, but rather the simple knowledge that they're there, nothing more definite even if he concentrates.

_I don't want to overstep_ , Charles says as they, and a dozen or so others, work their way through the security checkpoint. _I won't project to you unless I need your attention for something. Is that okay?_

_It's fine_ , Erik tells him. Charles nods, and his satisfaction, with a hint at having gotten something right, touches Erik too.

A little more good news waits for them up in their office. Everyone's there already, too busy with work and nursing their own hangovers to bother with Erik and Charles appearing at the same time again. When Erik logs into his computer, he finds that the report from the exhumations at the Hirschfield property is in.

"The first body found was Madeline," he tells Charles.

"I'd been hoping..." Charles sighs. "It's stupid. I should be happier that we figured out what happened to her."

_Hoping it wasn't her so she could still be alive, so we could still find her._ Charles doesn't project that, but Erik doesn't need telepathy to know that's what he's thinking; he's thought it before, on the handful of cases he's worked where a missing person ends up dead. He offers Charles a smile, carefully, comfortingly neutral. "She and her parents still have family living, on both sides of the family. They'll want to know what's happened to her, and see she's taken care of."

"And the others?" Charles cranes his head to look at the report Erik's pulled up from the server.

"Testing is still being done on them," Erik says. "As soon as it's finished, the families – if any can be found – will be contacted. There'll probably be more charges, maybe the government will finally get Ferenc and Hirschfield extradited, although it's doubtful."

"Still, it's good news." Charles says this as if he's trying to convince himself.

"It is, Charles." Erik starts to look for Yolanda Willis' phone number. She's Sophie's sister, Maddy's aunt – the reason, Erik remembers, why the case has been revived again. She'd called, demanding answers and justice for her sister and niece. _She has them now_ , Charles sends, catching the drift of Erik's thoughts. _Just the answers, though._

_It's a lot more than she had before_ , Erik tells him. 

Charles is called away before Erik makes the call, which is a mixed blessing. It's an experience Charles needs to have, and probably sooner rather than later, but Erik can't really regret that it's not going to be today. 

It's not an easy call, by any means, but it's not as bad as it could be. Ms. Willis weeps through most of it, but she's grateful as well as sad. Either way, it's emotionally draining. Once he's hung up, Erik has to rest his head in his hands for a few minutes before he's able to move on to anything else.

That's one thing over, he thinks. One step closer to the end of the day. 

The best strategy he has is to keep his blinders on. Concentrate on each task as it comes, without thinking beyond it. It is not a perfect system – there's more than once in the day when the thought of Shaw comes upon him suddenly and he's breathless, nearly blind with rage, before he can tamp it back down again enough to function. 

After lunch he stops by Moira's office, letting himself in without knocking.

Moira barely looks up from her computer. "You look terrible."

"I've been getting that a lot."

He drops himself into one of the chair, slumping down in a way he doesn't usually let himself do. Moira pulls her attention away from her work to give him a longer, more measuring look. Not for the first time, Erik dislikes the fact that his only friends are detectives, and that somewhere along the line, entirely without his permission, Moira has figured out many essential things about him.

"How are you holding up, Erik?" she says.

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Then why are you here?"

"I made notification on Madeline Lockwood." Erik tells her. Moira whistles softly. "Yolanda Willis – the aunt – knows she can't have her niece's body right away. She doesn't like it, but she knows. And she knows to expect the investigators and prosecutor soon. They're at least going to want to follow up."

Moira nods. It's not something he'd normally go out of his way to tell her, not when she can look in his reports and see for herself, but she accepts the excuse without making a show of it, of knowing he's covering up for something else. Erik wouldn't precisely call that _kind_ , especially when she says, "I heard about what happened at the bar last night," but he's still grateful for it.

"I was out of line," he says. He wonders who told.

"Summers couldn't shut up about it," Moira says. It's not like he actually needed to ask the question. Erik is suddenly, irrationally, tired of having his mind read. "And even though you just said it yourself, I'll say it again: You were out of line. What were you _thinking_ , Erik?"

_I won't have her speaking like that about Charles_ , is what he'd been thinking, in the flashes of clarity that his anger had allowed him. Moira eyes him, offers a quietly annoyed sound for his silence and says, "It was about Charles, I'm sure. There's a handful of subjects that could set you off like that, and Charles is one of them. Do I need to step in here?"

"No," Erik snaps. "No. We're fine. As long as Frost stays out of my head, we're fine."

"Everyone's fine, then," Moira says dryly.

Erik lets the silence develop after that, appreciating at least the quiet of Moira's office as she returns to work. He doesn't want to head downstairs and expend his energy on his scrap metal or smoke just yet. As he pulls over a file of his own and pretends to look through it, falling into the familiar pattern of the report, he discovers his mind pacing itself to another pattern: that of prisoners shuffling into a room, sitting before a group of bored men and women, giving an account of themselves, hearing themselves sentenced to freedom or more confinement, shuffling out again. They would do that a few times, and then it would be Shaw... Erik turns away from the picture in his head, of Shaw's arrogance in front of the parole board. Work, he tells himself. Work.

His phone chimes, shatteringly loud in the stillness, not long after two-thirty. He recognizes the tone, the one he uses for texts. A text, of course, Erik thinks. Bobby doesn't believe in calling when texting will do.

Very deliberately, he keeps his mind blank, allowing it to remember, to anticipate nothing. But the memories, the anticipation, push at the bars of their cage, reaching past it, clawing him, rending his breath so he's breathing shallowly, quickly, his control bleeding away from him, his heart racketing in his chest like a small scared thing – like a scared little boy – 

He pulls the phone out of his pocket.

A moment later, the phone is a crumpled sphere of metal in his hand, glass embedded in his skin and raining on the floor.

There are people on their feet in every direction from him. The blonde woman at the next desk over – she's a human, some aggressively Irish name Erik can never remember, Kelly or Reilly or O'Sullivan – rushes over, concerned. "I'm fine," Erik growls, and she stops where she is, not coming any closer, despite the disbelieving glance she gives his bleeding hand.

_Erik_. Charles's thought is a shout in his head, and Erik winces from it. 

_I'm fine_ , Erik says again, this time in his mind, directly to Charles. 

_Don't lie to me_.

Erik ignores him, focusing on cleaning up the glass on the floor. Charles appears, a few minutes later, looking slightly out of breath. There's a marked difference as soon as he does, as the people around all seem to instantly lose interest in Erik or his drama, all of them returning to their own concerns as if nothing had interrupted them in the first place.

Maybe Erik would feel grateful for it if he could feel any emotions right now, if there were anything left inside him but this burning. He's never let the fire inside him go out, has kept it banked and fed for years, but now – now it's a forest fire, spiraling out of control. Gratitude is a moot point.

"Erik," Charles says. His eyes dart from the remains of the phone and back to Erik's face. Whatever he sees there makes him pale. "They decided, then?" he says softly.

"Obviously," Erik bites off. _Parole granted._

Charles swallows. "I'm sorry," he says. He starts to step forward, into Erik's space, but he stops when Erik shakes his head, holds out his hand to keep Charles off him.

"Don't. Not right now. I can't – Fuck, I can't do this with you now."

Charles stiffens at that, in a way that's probably subtle to anybody else, anyone who hasn't spent so much time staring at him, so much time learning his body. "What does that mean, exactly? What's _this_?"

The huff Erik lets out has something in common with a laugh, but not very much. "There is nothing I want to do right now as much I want to kill that man," Erik says. "There is nothing in my head right now except how much I need something to tear apart. I need you to stay away from me right now, Charles. I can't take care of you right now."

The words hit Charles like a slap, his mouth falling open in stunned disbelief. "Is that what you think our relationship is?" Charles says, voice low. "You taking care of me?"

Erik doesn't answer. He turns away, starting to gather his things together so he can get out of this poisonous building before he erupts.

"What about me taking care of you?" Charles says. His voice sounds strained, as if there's something blocking his throat. Erik can't look at him, can't stand to even check if Charles is as close to tears as he suspects. "Doesn't it work both ways?"

"I said not right now," Erik grinds out. He doesn't bother with his jacket; he's burning up, the fury eating him from the inside out, superheating his skin. He summons his keys to him, yanks the drawer with his scrap metal open. The small sphere of mangled nails and coins flies obediently to him, distorting painfully as his abilities work through it, pulling it apart and melting it together, pulling it apart again.

"At least take care of your fucking hand," Charles snarls, thrusting someone's box of tissues at him. He's too close to the periphery of Erik's anger, but he meets Erik's eyes unflinchingly although his own are red and wide and liquid. "You're getting blood all over the place."

Erik grabs a couple of tissues and clenches them in his hand. The cuts aren't deep but there are a lot of them, maybe some with tiny glass shards that will start hurting whenever Erik stops being too angry to feel them. He doesn't say thank you, doesn't acknowledge Charles beyond twisting a little to step out of the way when Charles doesn't move. Fortunately for him, Charles doesn't follow as Erik heads for the stairwell, although Erik can feel Charles's gaze tracking him.

The air in the stairwell is cold, this part of the building poorly heated. It's a shock against his skin, one he barely feels as he takes the stairs two at a time, his ability running clumsy fingers against the metal railings. He can bend them at least, he can sink his power into the pipes and the wires and all the metal around him, the veins of the building running out to join the vast interconnected rivers of metal that make up the city, its buildings, the power grid, the hidden subways and the trains in the air and all the rest of it. Erik wants to tear it all up, it's an ache that grows until the finds the quiet shelter of the smoking area, abandoned at this time of day. 

His little ball of metal is too small a target for his rage. It spreads outward, looking for Shaw, ready to destroy everything to find him, he feels all the metal in the nearby buildings threatening to give way as if he can rip it out from under their skins of brick and concrete, and it feels so good, _Mama, I'm so sorry, I hate him, I'll find him and make him pay –_

"Erik!" A distant voice is shouting. Charles. "Erik, for god's sake, stop it! You're going to hurt somebody!"

He ignores the voice as best he can, unimportant like the patter of rain against the rooftop at night. It doesn't matter; nothing matters right now except this tide inside him, rising up higher and higher. He's going to drown in it, he knows it, but he doesn't care, as long as he can brings something down with him when he goes.

"Get a hold of yourself!" A slap across his face, Charles's arms shaking him, and Erik flings him away from him with the watch on his wrist and the metal of his jeans, causing Charles to tumble to the ground.

_Mama_ , Erik thinks, and the metal around him is almost singing to him; he feels more powerful than he ever has before, like he could do anything if he tried, even fly. But there's only one thing that he wants to do – that he _needs_ to do – 

"Forgive me for this, darling." Charles's voice is a whisper, no longer angry, and Erik spares him a glance, takes in the tear in Charles's eye and the finger at his temple, in the single instant before everything goes very, very still – and then, suddenly, black.

* * *

Erik wakes up in his own bed.

He stares at the ceiling, unmoving and silent. His window is open. There's a fresh, pleasant breeze coming in. It's not yet dark outside. In the distance Erik can hear the traffic of the street. 

His mind feels empty, alone. He has it all to himself. It's shockingly lonely.

The day comes slowly back to him, as if memory is reluctant to return. Waking up, the discussion with Charles, the anger at him – it seems a small thing, now – and the Lockwoods. Talking with Moira. His cell phone chiming at him. Everything blurs after that.

Shaw. He's worked into those most recent hours, swirled through them like a slick of oil through water.

_He's been paroled, Erik. Sorry._

The moments after are empty. All he can fill his mind with now is from years back, terror and grief, the aching helplessness as he'd begged his abilities to obey him. Shaw had walked out the door, untouched, telling Erik _you'll understand some day_ , and Erik had crouched over his mother's body and tried to stop the blood. It had covered them both. Erik swallows a sob and turns his head, as if to turn away from that moment.

Charles is here. Erik startles; he'd thought he was alone.

"You're awake." Charles isn't in bed with him; instead, he's perched on Erik's dresser, looking washed-out and exhausted in the twilight. When Erik calls the lights up, he doesn't look much better, dark circles under his eyes and his hair tousled in a way that suggests sleeplessness rather than Charles's usual lack of interest in making his hair behave. Mostly, though, Erik doesn't entirely understand why Charles is over _there_ , instead of with him, why his head is so silent.

"I told Moira I'd stay with you," Charles says. "It was either that or she'd have to have you sedated and hospitalized, by force if necessary. And people would have been hurt before that happened."

"You did this to me." He doesn't remember much after the text message except blinding rage and desperately looking for escape. He would have gone to the smoking area with his metal, Erik knows. It's what he's always done. And now that he thinks about it, he remembers the stale air underneath the shelter, the shredded remnants of the ball of scrap at his feet, all the metal around him anxious to obey when he commands it.

"As I said, you would have hurt people," Charles says. He shifts a little, drawing Erik's attention. He doesn't have his watch on; he does have a few Band-Aids, one on his left forearm, two on the fingers of his right hand. Erik frowns, trying to remember what happened, if Charles had cut himself earlier.

"How do you feel now?" Charles says.

Erik thinks it over, trying to figure out how to put it into words. "Strange. The anger is still there, but... it's like it's muffled, somehow. All I feel is numb." He pauses. "Is that you, doing that?"

"No," Charles says, "that's all you, Erik. Your mind can't sustain that kind of anger for long after you've slept." There's an air of resignation surrounding him that Erik doesn't really understand. 

"You should come here," Erik says.

Charles's mouth drops open in surprise. "Why?"

What kind of question is that? "Because," Erik says, "you're too far away. I can't hold you from there."

Charles still appears to be shell-shocked by Erik's words, but he drops himself off the dresser and walks around to the side of the bed. He sits down, but when Erik reaches for him, to pull him down beside him, he gently pushes Erik's hand away. "I didn't think you would ever want me near you again," Charles says. "After what I did."

"I don't remember what you did," Erik admits.

Charles sighs. It's almost unbearable, to look at Charles like this and not have the slightest clue what he's feeling. Erik feels like an entire sense has been stripped away. After a moment, Charles says, "I'll show you, if you want."

Erik nods and closes his eyes. He expects to feel Charles's fingers against his temple, but it doesn't happen. There's just a sudden rush of memories, vivid and overwhelming, leaving Erik panting and nauseated. He staggers with confusion, betrayal, anger – then, after a moment, rises above it, remembering why he's here, _Erik needs me, I'm so sorry, he won't forgive me but I have to._

He opens his eyes again to see Charles gazing over him in concern. Erik reaches out and grabs Charles's hand, rubbing his thumb lightly against the bandage there.

"I did this to you," Erik says.

Charles nods.

"Was anyone else hurt?"

"No," Charles says. "The people in the buildings around were just scared, that's all."

That's something, at least. He can't imagine what he might have done, without even caring, if Charles hadn't shut him down when he did. As it was, he only hurt the single person in the world he'd thought he'd die before doing that to.

"You must hate me right now," Erik murmurs.

Charles laughs softly. "I can't hate you. I _tried_ – while you were out, I thought, if he's going to be disgusted by you, it'll be easier if you can just hate him back. I even read your text messages on my phone."

Those texts – they're everything Erik has hoped Charles would never see of him, the patheticness and the pleading, followed by the bitterness, and then the cruelty and lashing out. At the time he hadn't even thought _you'll regret this_ as he'd sent those messages; he'd only felt the vicious satisfaction of typing them out and sending them. It had been later, when he'd finally given up, that he'd allowed himself to think of what he'd done and be ashamed at and angry with himself.

"You _should_ hate me," Erik says.

"I could show you what I felt, if you feel like flagellating yourself," Charles tells him.

"Show me," Erik says before Charles can tell him he was teasing, and adds, because he knows he's not in a place to be giving orders here, "Please, Charles."

Sighing, Charles touches his fingers to Erik's forehead.

He's exhausted, working on a headache, his telepathy not as sore as it was the first time he'd knocked out Lewis Mayfair, but it _feels_ worse, because that was Erik he'd just made stop. Moira had told him _do what you have to, Charles, I don't want anyone hurt, I don't want him hurt, I don't want this on the record any more than it's already going to be_. She'd looked at him then and really seen him, not as the precocious young man she's taken on, or the foolish one who'd gotten himself tangled up with Erik Lehnsherr, but as someone with his own strength. A strength she'd tested.

_I'm so sorry_ , he thinks, his mind a welter of what-ifs, racing ahead to when Erik inevitably wakes up. After Logan and Peter had left – they'd driven him and Erik here, Charles insisting that Erik was okay, he didn't need an ambulance ( _Erik would hate it if he found out, hate it even worse than what I did to him_ ) – he'd been left alone in the apartment, with Erik's mind submerged too deep even to dream. His thoughts fill up the empty space, the threads of awareness not tying him to Erik's breathing and pulse tangling him up in pictures of Erik realizing what Charles had done and sending him away.

_You took away his control, like Shaw did. Do you really think he's going to forgive you?_ The scratches on his arms and hands sting under their antiseptic and bandages. _You'll be lucky to get away with just a few cuts and bruises. Stay here, tell him what you did, listen to him tell you to get the hell out of his apartment (his work, his life), and go._

Then a bit of rebellion, drawing him up out of the morass. _You should hate him. You should hate him for making you do that to him. For pushing you. For telling you you're only good for being taken care of._ As he curls up on the couch, nursing a beer he barely tastes, he stares at his phone. Moira texts him; he responds, letting her know they're okay. Erik is still out cold, not even dreaming. After he hits send, he stares at the phone cradled in his palm, the little red circle that indicates he has unread texts.

He reads through them quickly, like downing a dose of cold medicine in one chug, or pulling off a bandage. Brief bits of them stick in his mind, digging themselves in to burrow deep as they can. 

_I don't understand what just happened_ – 

_Please come back and talk to me. Please_ – 

_I don't know what the fuck kind of game you're playing_ – 

_Are you really giving me the silent treatment? If you don't want me to treat you like an immature, selfish kid, maybe you shouldn't act like one_ – 

_Fuck you, you asshole, I give up_ – 

That was the last one. From the date stamp on it, Charles calculates that Erik sent it about four hours before he showed up at Charles's doorstep. And as much as the hurt and the guilt, that's what strikes him: knowing that Erik still came to him afterwards. 

_This was a stupid plan_ , Charles thinks. _There's nothing in here you didn't already know_. He deletes them, one by one, sending them off into the ether. He tries again, bringing up all the memories he can of all of Erik's worst qualities – his arrogance, his dismissiveness, his coldness, his pushiness, God, the thing he said today, the things he did – but it doesn't work. It _doesn't work_. They keep being crowded out by all of Charles's _other_ memories, the good ones, the sweet ones, even the ones that hurt. He can't hate Erik, no matter how much he tries.

Fine, then. If that's the way it is, Charles will have to accept it. He gets up from the couch, walks slowly to Erik's room like a man on his way to his execution. He sits himself on Erik's dresser, ignoring the cold, icy ball of misery deep in his gut, and sets himself to watch Erik sleep.

When Erik is Erik again, he doesn't entirely know if he can look at Charles. It's easier to keep his eyes shut and feel the betrayal whipping through those memories at seeing those words on the screen, _immature, selfish kid? Who was having a goddamn temper tantrum today, Lehnsherr?_ , ignoring Charles remembering how they'd reconciled that night. It's easier to keep seeing the bandages, signs of small wounds, and tell himself next time he'll only hurt Charles worse, without meaning to.

"We're going to have to talk about that," Charles says quietly, firmly. "I don't know what it says about me, but possibly the thing that makes me angriest about all of this is that you still want to see me as the one who needs taking care of, like I don't know my own mind when it comes to you. But for now, I need to tell you a few things about Shaw, so I can go to sleep knowing you're not going to try to sneak out and find him."

Erik swallows down the stale, bitter taste in his mouth. It's like old blood, like sleep. "I'm not stupid enough to jeopardize my career looking for him," he says. "I've known exactly where he was for almost twenty years; I could have killed him long before now."

"Yes, you are," Charles says sadly. "Or there's a rather significant part of you that wants to. It's already thinking about Shaw out here in the world, enjoying his freedom, Shaw looking for someone else to torture, someone else's family to destroy." _You're thinking about me, about him finding me and taking me from you. He won't; I'll never permit that, and the rational part of you knows it. But the irrational parts don't._

"What is it, then?" Erik ignores how close to home Charles's words hit.

"He's been moved into a heavily supervised group home for newly-released parolees," Charles tells him. Erik can hear the cadence of Moira's voice; Charles must be reciting this from memory. "He's to have no contact with young mutants, or those he believes are mutants. His movements will be watched, and his parole officer has been licensed to use an ability monitoring device." A bit of conflict there; Erik would normally protest an AMD being slapped on a mutant, extra punishment, but not with Shaw. "He's to have no contact with mutant-supremacy groups, or access their literature or websites. He's not free, Erik. Everyone knows to look out for him, and he'll be back in prison if he so much as _thinks_ about using another kid the way he used you."

Erik curls his fingers into the sheets. When he opens his eyes, Charles is looking down on him with a face that is almost painfully kind; if Erik had imagined it he would have expected himself to react to it with resentment and irritation, and yet he can't feel any of that right now. Maybe it's because what's in Charles's eyes has nothing to do with pity and everything to do with a fellowship of understanding.

"It should be enough," Erik says. "Why isn't that enough?"

"Nothing's ever going to be enough," Charles says. "We both know that."

Erik breathes in the truth of the words. Charles reaches out, tentatively, and strokes his hand down the side of Erik's face; Erik closes his eyes again for a moment, turning into the touch.

"You're exhausted," Erik says. "Do you trust me enough to behave myself while you sleep? I can get up and move to the couch if it will make you more comfortable."

"Don't do that." Charles stands up, and begins to undress. Erik turns away, giving him his privacy although Charles only strips down to his undershirt and boxers. After a minute Charles climbs onto his side of the bed, crawling on hands and knees, and lies down. They're not touching, but Charles is on his side, facing Erik, still peering into his face like he can see Erik's soul. Maybe he can.

"The thing is, Erik," Charles says, still very quiet, "you're kind of a control freak. And when you can't be in control of things, stuff starts to fall apart. You can't deal with Shaw all by yourself; you need to trust other people to do that. And you can't put yourself in charge of keeping me together, because I'll resent you for it, and you'll resent me when I fuck up anyway."

"I didn't mean it, earlier," Erik says. "Not like it came out. It's not that I think I'm taking care of you, it's..." He hesitates.

"It's the telepathy," Charles fills in, voice flat.

"I _love_ your powers," Erik says. He has to look away from Charles, concentrate on the safe blankness of the ceiling again. "I never want to be a person who tries to make you less than what you are. You should never have to hide, not a single bit."

"But..." Charles prompts.

"It's hard. It's hard, watching every single thought that goes through my brain."

Charles nods. "Then that..." Erik braces himself for what he's sure is going to come out of Charles's mouth, _that's it_ or _that's the one thing I can't do_. "Can I try to explain something?"

"Yeah."

After a deep breath, Charles says, "I do... I do better when I can read you. Not so I can reassure myself that you love me or that you're thinking the thoughts I want you to think – I wouldn't ever do that to you, Erik, I swear – but so I know how to react. I use it like everyone else uses body language or tone of voice. I need it, to help me understand. Do you see?"

Erik only vaguely sees, Charles's comparison notwithstanding, but nods anyway. Charles gives him a wry look, as if he's sensed the drift of Erik's thoughts.

"I was thinking about it, while you were... asleep," Charles says quietly. He inches a little closer to Erik, although he doesn't touch Erik, not yet. Erik merely looks at him, at Charles's face all shadowed in the dim-lit room. "The times we've fought, we've fought because I _haven't_ let myself see what you were thinking. The morning that I left, I didn't read your mind, not once. I was too afraid of what I'd find there." He smiles a bit, more sad than not. "If I had, maybe I would have seen you were confused and uncertain too."

_You would have seen that I was that. And you would have seen how disappointed I was, and how angry._ Erik makes himself say this out loud, and Charles nods thoughtfully before saying, "We'll never know for sure, will we? But if, if you want... whenever you don't want me in your head, just say so. I swear I'll respect your privacy."

A pleading edge has entered Charles's voice, and a wisp of thought, as if Charles can't control it, says, _Please believe me, please you don't have any reason to, but trust me when I say I'll stay away when you want me to._

_I have every reason to trust you_ , Erik says. Charles gives him a disbelieving look, and Erik says aloud, "This afternoon doesn't count as you breaking a promise to me. You did what you had to do." 

Charles bites his lip. Erik wants very badly to reach out, rest his thumb on the reddened skin but it's too soon for that. It's too much. Instead, he makes himself say, "I like having you in my head. I miss you when you're gone. I just – I don't want to fuck this up, and I think so many stupid, petty, asshole thoughts that would just hurt you or piss you off."

"Erik, that's... everybody thinks thoughts like that." Charles seems halfway between impatient and amused. "It's not something special and terrible about you. You have this idea that your mind is worse, darker than everyone else's, and it's not. And I've seen enough people's thoughts to tell the difference between the things you really mean and the things that just appear." He sighs. "I've been trying really hard this week to prove to you that I'm not going to run away like that again."

And that is what it comes down to, isn't it? Erik may have let his imagination wander sometimes, fill out his life in the future with Charles in it, but those fantasies have never been real. He's clung to Charles all the tighter because he's known somewhere that their relationship has a limited time span, and however long it takes, one day Charles is hear or sense or feel something, and whatever fragile hold Erik has on him will snap, and Charles will be gone. Still alive, but as distant and untouchable as Erik's mother, as unlikely to ever come back to him.

He lets himself, for the first time since he woke up, reach out and touch Charles, his fingertips brushing Charles's unruly hair off his forehead. 

"This morning," Erik says, "you said you wanted to tell me about why you panicked last night."

Charles tilts his head up, chasing the contact, sighing when Erik turns the absentminded gesture into something more meaningful, sliding his fingers into the thick, messy strands, nails scraping a bit against Charles's scalp.

"You don't want to hear about that now," Charles says. His eyes have slid shut as he eases into Erik's touch. "It's been a bad day already."

"I need to know," Erik tells him. He doesn't want to hear it, but he has to, has to understand so maybe he can exorcise the last of that confused anger from this morning. _This morning_ , god, it seems so far away, on the other side of so many terrible things.

Charles sighs, but nods, ducking out from under Erik's hand. He sits up, folding in on himself neatly and Erik lets him, figuring Charles needs to feel in charge of the situation, to feel contained. There's nothing to do but wait; Charles had promised he'd tell Erik about what had happened, but the how has to happen on his terms.

At last, Charles says, "A couple years after Cain moved in, it got... pretty bad. I could sometimes convince him I wasn't there, or redirect his attention somewhere else, but not always. I felt that – I felt I couldn't use my ability to defend myself, or get back at him for what he did to me. It would be giving in to what my father wanted – it would be using my abilities in a way I never had before. Every time I thought about using my abilities to erase Cain's memory or convince him he was… I don't know, a toad or something, I imagined my father encouraging me to see if I could do it."

_But then one day..._ Charles absently traces his right arm. Erik's eyes are automatically drawn to the skin there, which is pale and unmarked. "He pushed me down the stairs. I broke my arm. And I... I lost it. I wasn't trying to defend myself, it wasn't anything noble. It was fear and revenge. All I could think was Cain was taking control away from me, like my father did – that he knew I was scared of him, and too scared to use my abilities... and I decided I wouldn't be too scared to use my powers anymore. So I lashed out.

"And," Charles drags in a ragged breath, looking away from Erik now, his fingers tight in the blankets, "and I took his memory. I had no idea what I was doing, I just... I _tore_. I tried to destroy him, Erik. At that point I wasn't at my full strength, so instead of turning him into a vegetable I erased a few years' worth of memories. He got some of it back, but most of it's gone."

_I didn't want to use my telepathy with you that night because I was afraid I wouldn't be able to control myself_ , Charles tells him, his silent voice shaky and ashamed and pleading. _I would never forgive myself if I hurt you, even if I hadn't meant to._

Erik can't help the way his gaze goes directly, once again, to the covered wounds on Charles's arm and fingers. "I know the feeling," he says, and his voice sounds raw.

Charles brings up his knees, resting his forehead upon them.

_We both have the power to break each other_ , Erik says. _What do we do with that?_

"I don't know," Charles says, voice muffled. He turns his head, so Erik can see his face once again. He knows it so well by now it seems impossible that it once belonged to a stranger, some random and unknown person. And then that it was merely Xavier, the kid, a collection of pretty eyes and freckles and a red, red mouth, aggravating Erik at work and obsessing him when he was alone. It's so much _more_ than that now.

"Charles..." He has to say it, has to say it out loud, even, in real words. "If this is too much, if we've gone too fast... it's all right. You don't owe me anything. If you want to end this between us, if that's what you need to do – I'll understand." It might destroy Erik to watch him go, but better now than later, before they both fall further. Charles mightn't have been happy, all this time, but he was functioning, before Erik forced his way in through his defenses. Erik could give him up without another word, if it meant Charles would be okay.

But Charles is shaking his head, even as Erik speaks. "No," he says, "no, Erik. That's the last thing I want. I can't just go back to the way things were before. I didn't – I never had anybody who was always on my side before, before you."

"I'll always be that," Erik tells him, because it's true. And, even though it's going be like tearing his heart out of his chest to say, he adds, because Charles has to hear it and hear the effort it costs to say, "And I'll always want you here. You have to know that."

_I do_ , Charles sends, the words shaky with the kind of disbelief that's slowly turning into comprehension and acceptance as the knowledge settles in. He's gazing down at Erik, his eyes impossibly large as if drinking Erik in, a bit liquid in the darkness as if he's fighting back tears. "Can I – I know you're tired, you need space, but can I hold you?"

Erik wants to laugh. He does, although it's a dry, weak sound. Charles scowls. "You can," Erik says once he throttles the laughter back to a smile.

Even then the smile earns him a reproving poke in the ribs and, once Charles gets himself settled, cold feet on Erik's calf. The rest of him is warm, warmer than Erik's been all day, one thigh over Erik's and an arm across his torso to emphasize how Erik isn't going anywhere without a fight, his head resting on Erik's chest. When Erik turns his head to nuzzle at Charles's hair, it tickles his nose. Charles exhales, long and low and warm, and there it is, his mind brushing up alongside Erik's, tentative but allowing itself to curl up and drowse for a while.

For himself, Erik gets an arm around Charles's shoulder, palming the sturdy point of it, the bone assertive under the slim muscle. When he thinks, involuntarily, about Shaw, about how he could have lost this today, his grip tightens, his stomach clenching against the possibility even though he knows it'll never happen – it didn't, it won't, nothing can take Charles from him, not even Shaw.

If he _had_ lost it – it would have been him, not Shaw. It would have been because he let his anger win out, take him over, until there was nothing else left. No, even more than anger: _fear_. 

Erik's not fourteen anymore; there's no boogeyman in the closet. Shaw can't touch him, can't touch anybody, ever again.

All that's here is Erik's own choices. That's it. And he chooses this, _this_ exactly: Charles warm beside him, in his arms, for as long as Charles will have him. If that means stretching to live up to the man Charles deserves, then Erik can do that, too. 

_Me, too_ , Charles sends. He's already half-asleep, Erik thinks, but he's holding out, long enough to say this one last thing. _Me, too, darling..._

"Shhhh," Erik says, kissing the top of Charles's head. "Sleep now."

Charles's mind steadies as he drifts off, his breath fading to a slow and even tempo against Erik's chest. Erik turns off the lights again; night has fallen outside, in the time they've been talking, and the room is completely dark. 

When he falls asleep, the dream starts like any number of ones he's had before – that same evening, all those years ago. His mother is cooking dinner, while Erik sits at the kitchen table, working on his math homework, pausing to ask questions every once in a while, ones his mother seems perfectly capable of explaining without a pause or falter in her preparations.

When the door rings, Mama's hands are in the middle of the pile of raw chicken. She says, "I wonder who that could be. Will you get the door, Erik?"

Like always, in this dream, Erik feels himself both inside and outside. He is that teenager, jumping up from the table, eager for a moment away from algebra, but he's his adult self, too, who knows what's coming, who keeps yelling as if it will change the outcome, though it never has before. 

_Don't answer it. Don't answer._

His teenage self doesn't listen this time either. He doesn't even check the peephole before unlocking the door and flinging it wide open. Adult Erik cringes in anticipation ( _no, not again_ ) but – 

But this time it's not Shaw behind the door. It's Charles, dressed up in his favorite blue cardigan and ironed slacks, his hair almost neat. He's carrying a bunch of flowers, and he's grinning.

Erik can feel himself grinning back. "You're finally here! Come in – she can't wait to meet you."

Erik wakes up. His face is wet, and he can taste the salt of his own tears. He's rolled over in his sleep, pinning Charles down on his back; Charles's hand is on the back of his neck, rubbing a gentle circle, and he's whispering nonsense, soothing and quiet, like you'd calm a horse.

He tries to pull back – he's crushing Charles, he's pathetic, soaking Charles's shirt in tears and probably snot – but Charles's fingers tighten, a _hey, no, no, stay_ keeping him in place. The breath he drags in is clogged and choky, and the next he manages isn't much better. By the third, he thinks he's mostly got himself back together, enough that his lungs don't quiver.

_You love her very much_ , Charles says. The present tense, _love_ not _loved_ , and the wistfulness are piercing. Erik impatiently blinks back more tears and swallows until he's sure they'll stay down.

"She would have liked you." He knows this even though he had never confessed his bisexuality to her, had never brought home a boyfriend or girlfriend – _too serious_ , she'd said, _you need to find someone to have fun with._ She would have had Charles over for dinner every night, and sent him home with leftovers, until he had some meat on his bones. She'd have seen right through that blue-eyed freckled innocent face but pretended ignorance. She'd have given Charles's parents a piece of her mind.

Charles doesn't say anything to that; he knows, Erik figures, that the answer really isn't important. He continues to rub Erik's neck, the pattern expanding to take in his shoulders, prodding out the knots of tension that have tied them up. Erik shudders and sighs.

_I know it's hard_ , Charles murmurs, a quality to his telepathy Erik's never heard before, achingly gentle, sad and sweet. _But you can't... you'll never lose her, Erik. Your nightmares only let Shaw hurt her, and you, over and over again. He shouldn't get to do that. You don't deserve it. You never have._

"This one was different," Erik says. "It started like all the others but it... it was good." There's more than one kind of hurt; the agony that comes with Shaw is nothing like the burning sensation of something you thought had died coming back to life. He finds Charles's free hand, the one that's not still rubbing his neck, and he tangles their fingers together by their sides. "Thank you," he whispers, kissing the skin just above the collar of Charles's t-shirt.

The dream has faded now, almost entirely. Erik is awake, and he can tell that he's not going to be able to get back to sleep right away, not after the time he was out this afternoon and evening. He could go out and sit on the couch, watch a movie or read a book, but that would mean leaving Charles, leaving the asylum of his arms, and even to go a few yards seems too far right now.

His stomach rumbles suddenly, loud and obnoxious in the silent room. It surprises a laugh out of Charles, and he lets his hand fall from Erik's upper back. Reluctantly, Erik raises himself up on his arms, letting air fill in the space between them. 

"I should..." he says with regret.

Charles nods, his eyes sparkling a little, and he pushes himself up, giving Erik a soft peck on the mouth. "Go," he says. "Eat. You know I'll still be here when you're done."

Erik does, and it's true; when he returns to his bedroom later, there Charles is, curled up soft and strong and perfect in the middle of Erik's bed. And when Erik climbs back in, Charles rolls towards him, still asleep, wrapping himself around Erik like a vine around a branch, like he's missed Erik even in that brief time he's been gone, as if there is nowhere he would rather be and no one else he'd rather be with. As if this is how it's meant to be for both of them.


	9. Chapter nine: And Tuesday

He doesn't hear his alarm the following morning, although Erik's internal clock has him startling awake not long after six-thirty. It takes him a moment to remember that his phone is gone, destroyed in the disaster of yesterday. He pulls Charles’s phone to him instead, and learns the alarm’s been turned off there. And when Charles stirs next to him, his dream-soft thoughts nudging clumsily against Erik's confusion, he learns why: _You're on administrative leave, with pay, for three days. Moira knows you'll hate it, but I think that's the point. She says it's for giving her a heart attack._

Erik tenses, memories of yesterday rushing back to him. "I didn't... You said no one was hurt." _Except for you._ He can feel the bandage on Charles's hand where he's worked it under Erik's t-shirt. "Did I break anything?"

"No." Charles rubs his belly soothingly, butting his head up under Erik's chin. "Although you'll have to find some more scrap metal to rip up. Your poor stress ball was scattered all over the smoking area by the time I got there. And you'll need a new lighter." A shade of disapproval there, so very Charles – prim, proper, so subtly scathing – that Erik has to laugh.

_You're not Logan, your lungs won't magically regenerate after you smoke one of your cancer sticks_ , Charles informs him, but there's no heat in it.

"Maybe I'll quit," Erik says. It seems like a morning for new things, with Charles twined close around him, a sense of permanence to him, as if he's come to rest.

"Oh, so you'll be even crankier when you're going through withdrawal." Erik pinches Charles's side for that and Charles yelps, shoving at him in retaliation. "What, it's _true_."

"Such disrespect," Erik murmurs, turning them so he's got Charles half under him, grinning up at him full and honest – no _cheeky_ , pure insouciance when he raises their joined hands to his lips to kiss and nibble Erik's knuckles.

Erik grins down at him. He twists their hands so he can get his fingers to Charles's lips, slowly pressing the pads of his index and middle fingers in against the flat of Charles's tongue. Charles makes a pleased noise, and he moves his hand away from Erik’s and grips his wrist so he can push Erik's fingers deeper into his mouth and begin to suck on them properly. Erik holds himself still, letting Charles control the strokes of Erik's fingers as much as the actions of his own mouth. It's lovely, and wet, and warm, and his tongue is doing extraordinary things, designed to do nothing but remind Erik of the equally wonderful things Charles has done to Erik's cock.

_Your mouth is a weapon_ , Erik tells Charles, very seriously. 

Charles can't quite smile back at him, but the corners of his eyes are crinkly with amusement. _Pew pew pew_ , Charles says.

Erik buries his head in Charles's chest, trying to hold in his laughter. He pulls his hand out of Charles's grip and rolls them over, leaving Charles on top. Charles looks surprised as he sits up, and Erik tugs on his hips until he's straddled comfortably across Erik's body, knees on either side of Erik's waist. Erik places his hands on Charles's upper thighs, squeezing the hard muscle through the fabric of his boxers.

"If you want to have sex," Erik says, "I'm certainly up for it" – he ignores the innuendo-laden grin Charles gives him at this – "but you need to take the lead, all right? You say how fast we go, what you want us to do. You're in control."

Charles leans over, rubbing his hands absently down Erik's chest. "Erik, you don't have to – "

"Humor me," Erik says. He shifts himself, straining to lean up and meet Charles's mouth for a quick kiss. Charles follows him when he lies back down; he restarts the kiss, making it into something slow and deep and unsteady, their mouths breaking apart and finding each other again and again.

_I will, but still.... you don't_ , Charles tells him. He's rocking slowly back and forth, a delicious friction Erik wants to chase.

"Believe me, it's not a hardship," Erik says. 

He gets his hands on Charles's hips, not to guide, but to steady, his fingertips indenting the soft curve of Charles's haunches. Charles pulls his own shirt off, turning it into a showy stretch of torso and arms once he's got the shirt over his head, and it's also no hardship to sit up so Charles is sitting in his lap, and to bend his head to play with Charles's nipples. They're lovely and flat and tight, pink against Charles's pale skin, easy to worry between his teeth and lick until Charles is arching greedily into his mouth, grinding avidly down onto Erik's cock with each suckle and bite. Already Erik's aching for Charles, in a dozen nameless, directionless ways, but helpless to do anything but touch and kiss and receive the affection Charles gives him in return.

"Put me on my back and fuck me now," Charles whispers when he's pulled Erik up from where he'd been industriously marking Charles's neck. "No condom, if you're okay with that."

_God_. Erik can't help the flood of molten-hot desire, the gasp he gives up against Charles's mouth. Charles kisses him deep and fierce, taking everything he can get, until Erik finally breaks away to get a breath in. Then he's back, his slick mouth and tongue playing against Erik's, soft sounds he can taste and can't get enough of, as Erik braces him so he can sit up and then tip them both over, Charles collapsing back into the comforter with a startled laugh.

"You look so good," Erik says, incapable of saying anything more eloquent, not with Charles shirtless and flushed, his distracting mouth swollen from Erik's kisses. He looks better once Erik's got his boxers pulled down and off, his cock hard and proud between his legs, bobbing as little as Erik bends to breathe across the head and lick it gently. _You taste so good too. Can I suck you while I get you ready for me?_

"Yes," Charles says. "God, yes."

Erik kneels up quickly, fumbling behind himself for the nightstand and the drawer with the lube. He keeps his eyes on Charles even as he slicks up his fingers. He starts with one, circling Charles's rim until Charles grunts and demands more, and then he pushes it in, all the way to the knuckle, as Charles lets out a happy sigh. Erik lowers his mouth back to Charles's cock, concentrating his attentions on the head, licking and sucking hard in the way that reduces Charles to incoherence while he pulls out, pushing back in with two this time.

He takes in more of Charles, keeping it to an easy rhythm – not trying to make Charles come yet, just enjoying his taste and feel, enjoying the pleasure Charles can't help but reflect back to him – as he begins to stretch Charles out with his fingers. _Always so hot, so tight_ , Erik thinks.

"Be even better around your cock," Charles says, through panting breaths. "I can't wait to feel you."

Charles is still able to talk; that can be fixed. Erik pulls off of Charles's cock with a last, lingering lick, and grabs for the lube again. He removes his fingers from Charles's body (noting with appreciation the way his hole twitches as Erik leaves, clenches with disappointment against the emptiness) and reapplies the lube to them. When he penetrates Charles's body again, it's with four fingers, and Charles lets out a broken cry as he bucks up against the air.

Erik places his free hand on Charles's cock, stroking him there as he continues to ready Charles's ass. He concentrates on the feelings Charles is projecting and ignores the ache in his own cock as he works him into a gasping wreck.

_I'm ready_ , Charles says. His hands are all over his own body, roaming wildly, stopping for a moment to play with his nipples or touch the marks on his neck, but always starting again, as if he can't concentrate enough to stay in one place. _Fuck, Erik, I'm so ready._

"You are," Erik says hoarsely. "You're so good, so good for me." _To me_ he means, and Charles sighs like he understands.

He slicks his cock, pausing with his hand wrapped around the base so Charles can see. The moan he gets is throaty and impatient, Charles slamming his fists into the mattress. _I said I'm ready, damn it, I thought I was the one in charge here._

And he is, of course, and Erik doesn't know what it says about him, that Charles is the one in control here, that Erik's more than willing to give him whatever he wants. _It says good things_ , Charles tells him, _now get in me before I stop being nice._

When Erik pushes in, Charles arches underneath him, offering himself, urging Erik on into the gorgeous tight clench of his ass. The slide in is long, inexorable, slow, and Erik feels like he's going to come out of his skin with how good it is. Around him Charles's mind is nothing but directionless pleasure, no hint of trying to hold on, none of the shadow from the previous night coloring his reactions. Through sweat-hazed eyes Erik stares at the throbbing pulse in Charles's neck as Charles tips his head back, the flutter of it under skin he's already painted with bruises and bites. Charles has him resting between his legs, belly to belly, Erik's body sheltering him and trapping him—trapping him, Erik thinks, but when he pulls back, Charles's fingers on the back of his neck tug him down.

_Don't feel trapped_ , Charles says. _Feel safe_. He uses his fingers to direct Erik in shifting his head to the right angle so Charles can kiss him, a sloppy breathless thing that makes Erik feels drunk. He's hardly moving, barely removing any of his cock from Charles's tight grip before pushing back in with slow unsteady hitches of his hips. Charles's cock is straining and hard pressed between their bodies, but the glide is slick between Charles’s precome, Erik's spit, and their combined sweat. 

Eventually Charles loses his ability to focus on the kiss; he has to turn his head to the side, closing his eyes while his mouth emits the most gorgeous soft mewling cries and moans every time Erik bottoms out in him and makes his whole body shake with it. It's like fire to kindling in Erik's mind; he braces himself and begins to fuck Charles hard, pulling out just to shove back in with a loud slap of flesh, feeling almost crazed with it as Charles chants _yes, yes, yes_.

Charles gets his hands on Erik's shoulders, rubbing down the sweaty expanse of his upper back. _Are you close, my darling? Oh god_ – Charles sounds thoroughly giddy – _I can't believe you're going to come in me, I'm going to get to feel it_.

Erik _is_ close, already. He tries to draw back, enough that he can get his hand between them, jerk Charles off and bring him off, too, but Charles won't let him. _I'm in control_ , Charles reminds him, scratching his nails, blunt lines across Erik's skin, _and this is what I want._

Erik gives in. He bites down on Charles's shoulder and lets himself go, coming and coming into Charles's ass with a hoarse shout. He feels like he's dissolving at the edges, only Charles there to keep him contained in himself as his body jerks and shudders and empties itself. The thoughts he catches from Charles are thoughts of what Erik's bare flesh feels like inside of him, the thought of Erik's come marking him nearly making him drunk with pleasure, and that alone shatters Erik more than anything.

Charles pets him and strokes his hair while he regains his breath and sense of himself. After a minute, he starts to remove himself from the embrace, pulling out and arranging himself to lie by Charles's side, his muscles pleasantly spent, his cock lying slick between his legs. Charles doesn't stop him. When Erik's beside him, he lets out a long and satisfied sigh – despite the fact that his cock is still hard, desperate-looking. Charles brings up his knees, bracing his feet on the bed and spreading his legs. He reaches down to his hole; Erik can't see what he's doing, but Charles's teeth dig into his bottom lip.

"My god, Erik," Charles breathes out, "look at what you've done to me. I'm so wet from you."

Erik's so spent he's dizzy; realizing that Charles is fingering himself, feeling the come Erik's left in him, nearly finishes him, too much to process after his own orgasm. He lifts his head, a clumsy, heavy thing, and stares down the length of Charles's body to his bobbing cock and the shift of his hips as Charles moans and sighs happily.

_You should feel it_ , Charles tells him, _feel your come in me_. The words are thick and heavy with pleasure, Charles getting off on the simple _thought_ of Erik's come in him. When Erik's hand joins his, Erik has to swear, "Fuck, Charles," biting the word off against Charles's neck. It's all heated, swollen flesh, wet and messy and sticky with lube and come, a mixture Erik daubs on Charles's belly, right above his straining cock. Charles moans again, a hot little sound and Erik puts his fingers back where they were, pushing into Charles's stretched out hole.

"Doesn't it feel good?" Erik asks. His words slur like he's drunk, but Charles nods fervent agreement anyway, his mind an echo chamber of _yes yes yes_ , caught up in thinking of the sweet, deep hurt of being stretched and now Erik's come painting him all over. Erik murmurs to him, telling him what it was like fucking him, as if Charles didn't know, looking forward to Charles standing up, glancing back over his shoulder, down at the trickle of come working down his thigh.

_You're mine now_ , Erik thinks. It's involuntary but no less fierce and honest for that, a statement emphasized by pushing two fingers into Charles hard and deep, alongside the fingers Charles already has buried inside himself.

_I was already yours_ , Charles says.

_How are you even real_? Erik thinks despite himself. _How is this really my life?_

Charles doesn't answer, just flashes him a quick, private smile that disappears almost as fast as it comes, his face shifting into a grimace of pleasure as their fingers twist against something good inside him. 

Erik summons up the last of his strength to shift himself, getting his head back down to the level of Charles's cock. He nuzzles up against it, taking in Charles's scent; he licks down the length and back up again, tracing the vein with his tongue. He sucks the head into his mouth and lets it back out with a pop of his lips. He moves again, so he can use his free hand to grip Charles tightly at the base, and he rubs Charles's cockhead back and forth against his open mouth.

_Oh, oh_ , Charles says, and he clenches down so tightly it's almost painful, so that Erik couldn't move that hand even if he wanted to. His cock spurts in time with the spasms around their fingers; some lands on Erik's tongue, more on his chin, dripping back down onto Charles's cock and belly. 

_Oh_ , Charles says again, as his muscles relax once more, letting him fall back hard onto the bed. He slowly removes his fingers from himself, which Erik takes as cue to do the same. Charles turns his head to the side, giving Erik a beatific smile. 

Of course, given what they've just done, given Charles's flushed, sweaty face and glassy eyes – given, Erik sees, that he's tracing a sticky, filthy hand around one nipple – _beatific_ shades quickly through to smug and then into dirty. "Knock it off, Xavier," Erik says mock-sternly, which only gets him a soft laugh and a kiss, and Charles plastering himself to Erik's side. Charles's thoughts lean up against his, blurry and unsteady, as if they're drunk or drowsy. Maybe both; what Erik can decipher of Charles's emotions is rich with contentment.

He should get up and get something to clean them with, but moving is beyond him. It stays out of his reach for a while, although admittedly he isn't trying too hard; it's far easier to curl up with Charles and breathe him in and stay in the moment. Planning ahead threatens to bring the past few days back, a door they can creep through to steal up on him and grab him by the throat. Even with the drug of Charles's happiness around him, he senses he'll also need time to come to some realizations of his own. He's pretty sure he'll never accept that Shaw is free, that he'll remain free unless – until – he does something to put him back in jail again. He'll have to live with it, but that isn't the same as accepting.

But Charles... Erik pulls Charles a little closer, so Charles slides up and on to Erik's chest, blinking down at him sleepily. He's a bit stunned at the possessiveness that washes through him, as breath-stealing as if he's experiencing it for the first time, but Charles doesn't seem bothered, or is too sated and content to care much.

"What do you want to do with your whole seventy-two hours off?" Charles asks. He yawns as he says it – adorably, Erik thinks – and then scowls when he picks up on what's going across Erik's mind.

"Fuck MacTaggert," Erik grumbles. _I should hope not_ Charles interrupts, earning him a growl and a pinch on the shoulder. "Three days' suspension."

"I was thinking," Charles says brightly, "instead of looking a gift horse in the mouth, once we've rested up – and cleaned up, come to think of it – you could take me out to breakfast. Or brunch."

"I know a good place we could order in from – " Erik suggests, but Charles is shaking his head, so he stops talking.

"No. I want you to take me out somewhere. What do you think?"

Erik smiles at him. "I'd like that very much." He reaches up to cup Charles's jaw, brushing his thumb across his cheek. "Can I ask what changed your mind?"

"It's been a hard couple of days," Charles says. "Between my mother, and Shaw, and everything else. I thought I was going to lose you."

_You didn't_ , Erik thinks, _you won't_ , and Charles gives him his warmest glance. Erik's never thought of himself as a sentimental person, never been one for anything sticky and sweet; he doesn't understand it, why he can't help himself like this around Charles, all the things that come tumbling out of him without his consent, too much feeling bubbling over. Maybe part of it is the relief catching up with him.

"That's it, exactly," Charles murmurs. "We've made it through all of that, and now I just – god, Erik, I don't care anymore. I don't give a fuck what anybody thinks, I just want to be with you. Here in your bed or holding hands with you as we walk or eating pancakes together at the diner. I don't _care_. I just want you."

Erik pulls him down into a kiss. It's slow and muted and chaste, both of them still completely worn as they are, but neither one of them wants to let it end. It feels like a promise, the way a handshake can seal a deal. 

When they do finally break apart, Erik carefully tugs Charles off of him, onto his own side. Charles makes an inquiring noise as Erik begins to rise.

"I adore you revoltingly," Erik says, giving a peck to Charles's nose, "but if I have to lie in our filth for one more minute I'm going to go insane."

Charles looks like he's concentrating for a brief second, and then says, "According to your neighbors upstairs, it's not even eight yet."

"I know. Go ahead and go back to sleep, baby." 

Charles looks after him, pouting a little as Erik goes. "Your bed is really _very_ cozy," he tries, but Erik waves him away.

Charles grumbles, but by the time Erik's gotten to the doorway he's already tossing around, shuffling pillows and making himself comfortable. By the time Erik's heated the shower water to his liking, his sense of Charles's mind has faded to the familiar background haze of his sleep. 

It's been so long since Erik felt cheerful it takes him a moment to identify the emotion – but that's it, that's definitely it; there's no other word for it. He hums to himself as he scrubs himself down, washing off not only the sweat and come and dirt covering him, but something else too, more subtle and insidious.

Nothing's perfect; nothing's anywhere close to it. Neither he nor Charles can change their pasts, the people they've become because of them (even now, Erik's blood runs a little cold just letting Shaw's name run through his mind). But right now, at this very moment: things are good.

He can go even farther, he decides, as he switches off the shower and reaches for his towel. Erik thinks, _today is going to be a good day._

* * *

When they do finally leave for breakfast – after Erik finally tears himself away from the sight of Charles stretched loose-limbed and happy across his bed, soaking in the light through the corner window, and after Charles squawks indignantly and flails when Erik tosses a towel at his head with an order to get in the shower – the first thing Charles does is slide his fingers through Erik's. He swings their joined hands back and forth a little until Erik tightens his hold, pressing Charles's hand against his hip.

"Knock it off," he mutters.

Charles offers him a smirk in return, levering himself up on his toes to press that smirking, happy mouth against Erik's cheek. Erik turns his head to kiss him properly, if briefly, overcome suddenly by how they're outside on a weekday, all of New York City around them, doing this.

_That old woman over there thinks we're being positively scandalous_, Charles informs him. Even in Erik's head, Charles's accent thickens and stretches to convey dimensions of shock and affront along with mockery. _She doesn't know what a sweet young thing like me is doing with someone like you… There was something in there about rough trade._

"Stop being an ass," Erik says, because Charles is playing, being ridiculous, and Erik has his dignity. "Let's go eat."

"Yes, let's," Charles agrees, so parodically and properly sober Erik has to shake his head and laugh.


	10. Epilogue: On Friday

Three days later, they walk into the station.

Charles had only half-heartedly suggested that Erik use one day of his extensive vacation savings and take Friday off as well, but even Erik could see that Charles had wanted to get back as well. There's something Erik doesn't trust about too much peace, as wonderful as it had been to have Charles all to himself for three more days. He needs his routine, slipping out of bed early to run, then showering and going in to find a new case on his desk. 

Although now that routine includes kissing Charles before putting on his running shoes and threatening Charles with having to find his own way to work if he doesn't hurry. It might change in the future, but Erik finds he loves it.

Charles doesn't bother to jog to keep up with Erik when Erik walks at his normal gait, seemingly content to trail behind instead of pushing himself to prove that he can. He stops, in fact, lingering by someone's desk to chitchat. Erik can still feel his air of charming flirtation in his head, and it makes him want very badly to roll his eyes, but he forbears. 

He goes straight to Moira's office; better to get it over with, first thing. Moira is busy, deeply intent on something on her computer, but she glances up and acknowledges him with a nod when she registers his presence.

Erik doesn't sit down, instead walking up to the desk and staring down at her. He waits.

"You and I need to have a long talk," Moira says, eyes still on her screen, "but it's going to have to wait until later today. I don't have the time right now."

"This will only take a minute," Erik tells her. Moira sighs, but she doesn't tell him to leave her alone. "I owe you an apology for Monday."

That makes Moira look up. Her eyes are piercing, not hard but unyielding all the same. Erik holds himself straight and still under her examination. Finally, Moira says, "You scared the hell out of me, Lehnsherr. And I can't have one of my detectives fly off the handle like that and risk people's lives."

"I understand that," Erik says. "It won't happen again."

"It _can't_ happen again," Moira replies sharply. She sighs again, this time rubbing at her temples. "Here, I got you something." She opens one of her drawers and takes out a box, tossing it over for Erik to catch. It's a box of staples.

Erik's mouth curls into a smile. "Thanks."

"I even got you the heavy-duty kind. Staples up to sixty pages," Moira tells him. "Don't say I never did anything for you, Lehnsherr."

"You're all heart, MacTaggert." Erik turns the box over, feeling out the staples in their neatly-regimented rows. The alloy isn't particularly pleasurable to feel, but he won't feel bad about pulling them apart. While he plays with the box he considers what else to say, if there's something else to say other than _do you have another case for us._

"I know, I'm a goddamned saint," Moira says. She leans back in her chair, gazing inscrutably up at Erik. "You know, I think we'd be having a very different conversation now if Charles hadn't been here. Everyone was, understandably, freaking out at the thought of you pulling down every building in a block's radius, but he kept his head. And yours, by the looks of it."

"He told me you told him to do whatever was necessary." Erik doesn't remember precisely what had happened, other than through the memories Charles had given him; he does remember Moira's strained, frightened _angry_ face and how she'd had to push the fear and anger to the side – how that fear, some of it anyway, had been for Erik. For him only, not for what he could do. "You put him – I put him in a terrible position."

"Charles was the only person who could stop you," Moira reminds him. "I don't know if it was the telepathy, or him being who he is to you, but... he was the only one who could do it. As someone who likes him – and respects him – I would prefer that he not be in that position again."

"Me too," Erik says softly.

Moira makes the sound she reserves for witnessing things mushy and sentimental beyond endurance. "There's a folder for you on your desk," she says. "You might find it interesting. More interesting than making me puke."

Erik nods and leaves before he has to say thank you again, stepping back out into the controlled chaos of the station. Like a compass needle he points to his desk, to the warm presence of the boy who's perched on the corner of it, poring over a thick manila folder.

"Erik!" Charles says, looking up, infallibly aware of Erik's attention on him. His thoughts curl warmly around Erik's before vanishing away into teasing, wicked humor. "This looks like it will be rather a lot of work. Two murders, fifteen years ago. Separate incidents, but the forensics suggest the same person is responsible. Police at the time found no credible suspects. It's a good thing you have me now, isn't it?"

"Well, Xavier," Erik says, "we'd better get to work."


End file.
